Of War, Toys, and Hammers
by Your-Typical-WhiskeyTango
Summary: What happens when you take forces from the grim dark future of the 41st Millennium and then place them into the basement of a 21st Century military veteran's home? One thing is for certain: Marcus Amalfitano would have preferred to experience anything but.
1. Almost a Normal Life

_'__Warhammer 40K' and all associated tabletop games, video games, and novels belong to _Games Workshop_. Please support official releases._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Almost a Normal Life**

Marcus held up the small blue figurine and analyzed it briefly, registering it as little more than some generic soldier of science-fiction before returning it to the box. "He gave me all of this?"

"He knew you liked games," his father replied. The older man was still dressed in black funeral wear, his lips slightly curved into a melancholic smile. "Although I don't think he ever understood the difference between video-games and board-games."

A light chuckle managed to escape the twenty-four-year-old. His grandfather, may he rest in peace, had never quite acclimated to the electronic age. Anything more complicated than a flip phone threw the elder for a loop. It was a pity, considering both grandfather and grandson were natural gamers. Though born too early to experience the wonders of modern entertainment technology, the Amalfitano senior's age hadn't stopped him from diving into the tabletop market.

Marcus glanced over the collection of games piled on and around his coffee table, all ranging from decades old to somewhat new. There was an original edition of 'Axis & Allies' from the 1980s along with its modern '1942 Second Edition' version, a 'Dungeons & Dragons' set, an aging 'Magic the Gathering' card box, 'Diplomacy', 'War of the Ring', 'Fortress America', a few more common board games like 'Risk' and 'Settlers of Catan', and the cardboard moving box labeled 'Warhammer 40K' he was currently shifting through. A charming collection to be sure.

He just wished it still belonged to his grandfather.

"Want some help bringing it all down?" His father came to his side standing a little less than a couple inches shorter and patted the younger man's right shoulder. "Or do you think you can handle it?"

About to refuse the offer, Marcus instead hesitated. "Sure."

Five or so minutes later, the two had finished finding room for the tabletop games in the basement's extra closet space. The older of the two made a gesture of wiping his hands before casually walking to the center of the room and seating himself on the large sofa there. "Really outdid yourself with the place," he said teasingly.

The basement was more a man-cave than anything else. A large rectangular living area that could double as a studio apartment, its walls were decorated in a wide variety of memorabilia including posters, model planes and ships, picture frames, and a few reminders of Marcus' time serving in the U.S. Navy. Mounted on the wall at the back, opposite of the staircase leading up to the single-story house's kitchen, was a 65-inch flat screen television. A handcrafted wooden entertainment center stained in a dark cherry red rested beneath the TV, it being home to nearly every video game console created since the Nintendo 64. To the left of that in the far corner was a computer desk housing his custom-built high-performance desktop computer with its 32-inch LED monitor.

A barely amused snort escaped Marcus' lips as he made his way to the mini fridge located beneath the staircase. "I've had the place for a year, Dad. Plenty of time to make it my own." Pulling out an ice-cold Samuel Adams, he gestured towards his father. "Want one?"

"Have any Heineken?"

"Nah, all out of those."

"Damn."

"I have some Boston Lager..."

"Ain't the same." His father grunted. "But might as well. Hand me one, will ya kiddo?"

Marcus snickered at the moniker. After grabbing the second beer and picking up the bottle opener he typically left atop the mini fridge, he plopped down on the sofa as well and sent his father a not-so-serious stink eye. "You ever gonna stop calling me that?"

The parent chuckled while opening his bottle. "As long as you're my son, you'll always be my kiddo," he declared with a smirk.

Lightly shaking his head, Marcus still managed a small smile in return before taking a sip of his beer, savoring the refreshing taste of the Summer Ale. "Pain in the ass."

"Bafangool." The two then looked at each other and, for the first time in what had likely been months, shared a heartfelt laugh. A short-lived but welcome distraction from the somber mood of the day.

The last time he and his father had managed to embrace a similar moment had been a year ago, shortly after his EAS and he'd received his DD214 form. Marcus had returned to New York City after five years as a Hospital Corpsman, and his whole extended family saw it fit to celebrate his return with a large dinner party stereotypical of Brooklyn-Italians. Before that was during his farewell party on the day prior to his shipping to RTC Great Lakes and the beginning of his military career. On both previous occasions, the two had found themselves in similar positions quietly enjoying their drinks with sparse conversation, although those moments had been on the roof of his parents' apartment building in Brooklyn rather than in the basement of his upstate New York single-bedroom flat.

Eventually, the memory of his grandfather came back to mind. "How's Mom and Nana doing?" he asked after another swig.

"Bless their souls." His father made the Catholic sign of the cross with his right hand. "I had to run to Duane Reade for a new pack of tissues."

"That bad?"

"The reception will help."

Marcus made a sound that was halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Fine food and the chance to gossip could lift any Italian woman's spirits."

The older man nearly spit out his beer. "If only you knew how right you are," he stated with an amused head shake.

"I grew up with them, ya know. Think that gives me a good idea of how 'right' I am." Going for another sip of his Summer Ale, Marcus' lips were met with emptiness. He sighed, then looked to the analog watch on his left wrist. "Speaking of the reception, it's probably about high time we start heading there."

"Right, don't tell your mother we had a drink already. God forbid a man can't have _one_ beer before he gets behind a wheel..."

—

_Eleven Months Later_

_September 5th, 2012_

Marcus walked into his home with a hammering headache and feeling as if each step carried a bag of bricks. It had been another long night on the job, the passed day having been particularly taxing. He could only imagine how dark the bags under his eyes were. Receiving a bottle of water and three tablets of Ibuprofen from the kitchen, he made straight for the living room and dropped onto the couch with a deep sigh of relief, uncaring that he was still in his work getup and grey autumn jacket. He popped the tablets in his mouth, drained the bottle halfway with a long gulp, then closed his eyes and rested his head back. After shifting around a bit for maximum comfort, it wouldn't have been difficult for him to fall asleep.

His phone's notification tone, the generic default option of his Samsung Galaxy S2, went off not a minute later. With a groan, he pulled the device out from his pants' pocket to see who or what dared to bother him at two o' clock in the dead of night. It was a text message.

_Jake: [hey bro, you up?]_

Of course it was _him_. Marcus might have laughed had he not been so tired.

_Marcus: [barely. just got back from work lil while ago]_

_Marcus: [whats so important you had to interrupt my beauty sleep?]_

_Jake: [you say that like you aren't an ugly bitch]_

_Marcus: [fuck you we both know I look better than your stank redneck ass lol wtf you want?]_

_Jake: [lol you wish city boy. I wanted to know if we're still good for tomorrow]_

_Marcus: [technically later today and yea we're still good. bringing the wife and kids?]_

_Jake: [smartass. you know it'd be hell to pay if I didn't bring them along]_

_Jake: [they've been meaning to meet you in person]_

_Marcus: [sounds good. now why tf is a family man like you up so late?]_

_Jake: [me and the missus woke up and had some nighttime fun. can't do it during the day anymore with the boys running around]_

_Marcus: [jokes on you, the single life is where it's at]_

_Jake: [yeah I bet you been working Palmella real good]_

_Marcus: [fuck yourself lol]_

_Jake: [no need, I got the woman of my dreams in bed and naked]_

_Marcus: [well then go bother her. night]_

_Jake: [will do. night bro]_

Marcus placed his phone on the coffee table with a shake of the head and a small smile. Jake, his old Marine buddy who was visiting New York City from his home state of Utah, always knew how to lift his spirits at the oddest yet most effective of times. The retired Navy corpsman was happy for the week-long paid vacation that would begin in the morning, providing all the time he desired to spend with his family and Jake's.

Later, once he'd finished the rest of his water and the pain-relieving effects of the ibuprofen had kicked in, he finally went through the process of removing his garments. He then found himself in the shower shortly afterwards, steaming water flowing over his head and back. Since his return from military service, he'd come to fully appreciate his privacy and access to hot water like never before. Even in his exhausted state, he long remained in the shower until his flat's boiler depleted at last and the heat in the water gave way to cold.

It wasn't until he was in bed and on the brink of sleep, wearing nothing but a white undershirt and boxer briefs, did the smoke detector activate with its obnoxiously loud beeping alarm.

_You've gotta be kidding me_, he thought groggily while rising from the comfort of his queen-sized mattress. This was not the first instance that the device had malfunctioned. _I really need to get a damn replacement._ With a towel from his closet in-hand and an expression of avid annoyance on his face, he passed through the dining area and made for the living room where the smoke detector was located on the ceiling. The moment he was about to begin fanning with the towel to push a fresh batch of air into it, however, was when he noticed the smell.

Something was burning; a mixture of plastic, wood, and some other faint materials from what he could tell by the scent.

Marcus' mind and body went into overdrive, prior lack of energy forgotten. He ran for the fire extinguisher in the kitchen, recognizing then how the smell grew in strength the closer he was to the basement door. He soaked the towel still in his hands with water from the sink, then wrapped it over his mouth and nose before pulling the safety pin from the fire extinguisher, the speed and quick-thinking of his actions a benefit of the firefighting skills he'd acquired in the Navy. He'd call 9-1-1 either when the fire was put out or if whatever fiery mess he found was too much for him alone to handle.

The sounds of intense gunfire and firecracker-like explosions entered his ears as soon as he opened the door, stopping him in his tracks. Looking down the staircase, he saw flashes of differing colors of light illuminating the walls in incoherent but rapid-firing patterns. He couldn't tell what the source was since it all originated from deeper within the basement. It sounded as if a small war was being waged, possibly from a military film playing on the television.

Confusion aside, common sense at the very least dictated that someone had broken into his home. There were two small windows lining the ceiling of the basement's far wall, and whoever was down below might have broken the glass of one and sneaked in when Marcus was in the shower. With that thought in mind, he carefully abandoned the fire extinguisher to the corner of the kitchen and returned to his bedroom in a hasty yet controlled pace. He then knelt beside his bed and retrieved a large rectangular black case from underneath, the contents guarded by a four-digit combination lock. Entering the correct number-code opened the container to reveal his personal firearm.

The former sailor had managed to acquire a permit for long rifles several months back due in no small part to his veteran status, allowing him the opportunity to legally purchase a Colt AR-15. It wasn't extensively customized; just an EOTECH holographic sight and a quad-rail with a mounted flashlight. Laid alongside the semi-automatic rifle were two 30-round STANAG magazines, each already filled to capacity with .223 Remington 55 grain FMJ rounds. He loaded one magazine into his rifle with an audible racking of the bolt and pocketed the second into his boxer briefs. No time had been afforded to adorn a pair of pants.

He was back at the open door leading into the basement a moment later. The sounds of battle and ensuing light-show were still raging on. Rifle expertly shouldered and trained down the staircase, he placed his finger on the trigger while simultaneously flipping the safety off with his thumb. It was then he took his first steps downward, his descent steady while keeping his back to the wall on the left.

Marcus didn't know what or who he would find when he reached the bottom. However, what he saw after turning the corner to the right nearly caused him to drop his rifle. Occurring before him was what could only be described as a violent war between _toys_. Or, more specifically, what were once the inanimate figurines that made up his modest collection of 'Warhammer 40K' tabletop minis, now apparently fully alive and equipped with functional weaponry.

At the opposite side of the room was a group of about a dozen Space Marines, the identities of the chapters given away by the blues and whites of the Ultramarines and the greens and blacks of the Salamanders. Fighting beside them was a larger contingent of troops sporting the army green uniforms of the Imperial Guard, their numbers supported by the bastard lovechild of a WW1-era British Mark V, Interwar-era French Char B1, and WW2-era Soviet T-34 that was the Leman Russ tank situated on the floor. The forces of the Imperium had altogether taken control of his entertainment center and were using it as a provisional fortress, utilizing disk cases and old video-game cartridges as barricades or trench walls. Some of the Guardsmen were even using the actual disks as pseudo-ballistic shields with varying degrees of success.

Located at the farthest right side of the basement was a platoon of Eldar exchanging fire with the Imperium. Various unit types were mixed in the fray, including the crimson hairs of several Howling Banshees, the white armors and green helmets of about two dozen Guardians, the blue armors of a squad of Dire Avengers, and the decorated purple and gold regalia of a Farseer. They had secured the bar area he had created for the occasional social gathering and converted it into their own base of operations, employing the various glasses, bottles, and accessories as makeshift fortifications.

The _boom_ of the Leman Russ firing its main gun and the following explosive blast that blew apart a row of shot glasses behind the bar counter was what broke the retired Navy corpsman out of his frozen stupor. He removed the wet towel from his face and rubbed his eyes in a meager attempt to ensure he wasn't hallucinating. Then for good measure, he pinched his right forearm hard. When he arrived at the conclusion that he was not under the influence of heavy hallucinogens nor inside the machinations of a deep slumber, he reached for the switch on the wall to his left and flooded the basement in proper light.

And that was when every "living" being within the room immediately stopped whatever they were doing.


	2. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

**Chapter 2**

**Whiskey Tango Foxtrot**

"What the fuck?!"

To a regular-sized person, his yell would have come across as on the more collected side. In the perspective of the many miniature men and women occupying his basement with their exponentially smaller anatomies, however, the volume must have been piercing. Many troops on both sides of the battlefield, Imperium and Eldar alike, grasped the sides of their heads in obvious pain, though the Imperial Guard were hit the most. The Space Marines, the Howling Banshees, and the Farseer were the only exceptions. They didn't seem to be affected in the slightest beyond becoming visibly more guarded.

He had seen enough horror flicks like 'Chucky' to have a good idea where this pickle might lead to, and knowing that the two factions in front of him had originated from what was arguably the most volatile and war-torn fictional universe ever created didn't help that train of thought. His grip on the AR-15 instinctively tightened, mind beginning to register a first target as it compartmentalized the absurdity of the situation in favor of falling back on the teachings of his military service. Having been a green-side Corpsman attached to a Marine platoon in Afghanistan, he was no slouch with a rifle. He'd seen his fair share of combat.

All it took was the flip of a mental switch. His weapon was raised and aimed at the Leman Russ tank in the blink of an eye.

"You all have about five fucking seconds before I choose violence," Marcus declared forcefully, but not loud enough to burst any mini eardrums. "So, if any of you can understand me, you damn well better make that clear right now."

Unsurprisingly, the Space Marines and Howling Banshees with their far greater experience and training had been quicker on the draw with their bolters and shuriken pistols. They fortunately held their fire. Instead, two of the Space Marines stepped forward from amidst the crowd on the entertainment center, the Ultramarine's red helmet and Salamander's gold helmet signifying their ranks of sergeant. They were soon followed by an Imperial Guardsman wearing an officer's cap and trench coat rather than the standard helmet and armor setup of the grunts, whom in turn was followed by what looked to be a commissar based on the gold trimmings of his fashioned uniform and the elongated cap. The Eldar forces, on the other hand, observed with such near perfect stillness that one could have almost believed they had reverted to inanimate toys. Their heads tracking the former sailor's every movement was the only giveaway.

Just as they kept their weapons trained on him, his rifle was still raised and at the ready while he cautiously approached the Imperials. The AR-15's holographic sight remained centered on their armored vehicle. Once he was close enough, the Ultramarine spoke in a volume that made it seem as if he was speaking in a relatively normal voice, that is if the harsh deepness of it was ignored. "**By the Emperor's will, I demand you identify yourself, giant. Are you Human or Xeno?**"

If Marcus was in any other state of mind, he might have been surprised by their ability to speak British-accented English or otherwise his ability to understand their Gothic. Last he checked the lore, the language spoken by the Imperium of Man's common citizenry was a bastardized mix of numerous European and Asian languages. Nevertheless, that was one question among many others that was put into an imaginary box to be saved for later.

"One hundred percent pure-blooded Human."

"**And still you raise arms against us in defense of the xenos, _Heretic_?**" The word "heretic" rolled off the Space Marine's tongue with noticeable disgust, both a question in and of itself as well as a clear accusation.

"I'm not defending anyone," the retired corpsman corrected. "I want to know how the fuck you're all here in my basement, and I'd very much like to do that without getting shot at. Having a bit of leverage-" He slightly hefted his rifle for emphasis. "-helps."

The two Space Marine sergeants, the Commissar, and the Imperial Guard officer turned to each other and began speaking among themselves. The Ultramarine addressed Marcus again a few moments later. "**In truth, giant, we do not entirely know how we arrived here, nor do we understand how we shrunk to this size. Yet all the same, this reeks of the work of Chaos.**"

Marcus did not want to go down that rabbit hole. "Any bright ideas other than 'Chaos did it' would be great."

The Imperial Guard officer took the opportunity to introduce himself. He was a youthful-looking man with warm Caucasian skin and a groomed mop of healthy dirty blonde hair atop his head. The color of his eyes was indistinguishable because of his small size, but there was a visible line of scarred tissue traced from over his left eye down to his chin. He nearly had to yell for his voice to carry over well enough to be heard effectively. "Lieutenant Hector Royce, First Platoon, Fourth Infantry Company of the 602nd Cadian Regiment."

"Hospitalman Third Class Marcus Amalfitano, retired, sir," was the former sailor's conditioned response. He risked momentarily lowering his rifle in order to respect the officer's rank with a perfect right-handed salute.

The Lieutenant properly returned the gesture with a half-smile. "I am unfamiliar with the rank."

"Basically a medic."

"That so." Royce then stood straight and held his hands behind his back. "The best any of us can tell you, Hospital-man, is that our fleet was in the process of investigating a previously uncharted world on the fringes of the Ultima Segmentum, when a contingent of Eldar ships warped into nearby space. Soon afterwards, and before we could engage the xenos, a large warp rift opened inside the system, pulling all of our vessels within. Next any of us knew, we found ourselves here with barely two-thirds of my platoon, the Leman Russ, and the Astartes you see now."

"Filthy xenos," the Commissar abruptly decried. "They are likely the ones behind this!"

The Lieutenant gave the agent a glance. "Forgive my neglectfulness. Allow me to introduce Commissar Ellonya Olchenick."

Olchenick was in fact a middle-aged woman, the shape of her breasts and feminine hips only noticeable through her attire upon closer inspection. Military-style uniforms always had a way of obscuring such bodily features. She had chestnut hair fashioned into a military bun, and her sharp nose and oval face gave a very Slavic impression of her ancestry. Her face was twisted into a scowl as she looked at Marcus. "If it was up to me, heretic, I would be debating whether or not to have you shot."

The retired corpsman merely narrowed his gaze in response. "How _comforting_."

Royce then ceased the budding exchange with a light cough. "Moving on – the Astartes alongside me are-"

"**We are capable of introducing ourselves, Lieutenant**," interrupted the green-armored Space Marine who until now had remained silent. He provided the Imperial Guard officer with a somewhat friendly pat on the shoulder. "**I am Sergeant Castiel Pholux, of the Salamander chapter.**"

Pholux's blue-armored companion continued from there, though with considerably less warmth and more pretension. "**I am Titunnus Gielux, Adeptus Astartes sergeant of the Emperor's noble Ultramarine chapter.**"

"I could say it's a pleasure to meet you all, but that'd be a lie," Marcus admitted, wearily noting how weapons were still raised.

The Commissar snorted. "Trust me, heretic, when I say we are under the same opinion."

"Then let's come to a quick agreement," the former sailor proposed. "I'll lower my weapon if you guarantee you won't shoot me afterwards."

To the annoyance of Olchenick, the Lieutenant didn't hesitate. "Agreed. Frankly, I do not see how continued hostilities would be in our best interests at this current time."

Once Marcus' rifle and the Imperials' weapons were stowed away, lessening the tension between them to a tolerable degree, Gielux spoke again. "**What of the Eldar, giant? Do you expect us to make nice with them?**" According to the tone of his voice, the Space Marine was less than accepting of the idea. Many of the nearby Guardsmen also shook their heads in disagreement.

His mental switch now flipped off, the only normal-sized person in the room answered with a distressed sigh. The godforsaken smoke alarm was still ringing in his ears, his entertainment center was smoking, the bar was a haphazard mess of broken glass, the entire basement was a war-torn disaster of ruined furniture, and now he had to face the fact that nearly his entire video game and console collection – his most prized keepsake he'd been building up since he was a kid – was likely destroyed. This was all happening after a grueling day at work too. He wanted to yell out to his heart's content, but that would have only worsened the banging headache that had returned, so he instead chose to rub the bridge of his nose and take a set of slow and deep breaths. Someone was going to get throttled when things settled down.

"I'm not asking you to like them," the retired corpsman declared pointedly. "I want you to tolerate them long enough for me to process this clusterfuck and figure out what to do. Then, I want you both to avoid each other like the plague."

Olchenick looked irate. "Such is an insult to the Emperor himself! I will not sit here and allow the xenos to persevere within our presence."

"God help me, my basement will not become your personal warzone." Marcus returned the Commissar's seemingly perpetual scowl with a harsh glare of his own. The more he allowed his emotions get the better of him, the more his Brooklyn accent became apparent. "Ya wanna go kill each other? Fine by me, but go shoot up someone else's place in the process, because I sure as hell ain't gonna deal with your bullshit in my own fuckin' house! You can come runnin' back to me when you've realized the kind of shit stawm you're in."

Ignoring Olchenick, who appeared as if steam was about to blow out from her ears, Royce looked at the relative giant of a man curiously. "You say that as if it is an inevitability."

"'Cause you don't have a fuckin' clue just where you aw, or when." Marcus rubbed his temples, the headache threatening to transition into a full-blown migraine. "Here I am soundin' like my mother. It's too late for this shit – I need more aspirin, and some fucking sleep."

He walked away from the Imperials without another word, ignoring anything else they might have said or asked. Taking his first step up the staircase, he paused before turning towards the bar and group of Eldar, the aliens as quiet and still as ever. After about a ten-second staring contest, all he could do was shake his head. It had almost been too easy to forget they were there.

"You heard what I told them, so I ain't repeating myself. It's about a quarter-to-four, and I want to go to bed. If you have a problem with that, speak your peace." He waited through half of a minute of more silence. A few of them might have moved, including their Farseer, but he wasn't sure. "Good. I'll be right back with the fire extinguisher... once I break that fucking smoke detector."

—

Marcus woke up at ten o' clock in the morning from what he believed was the craziest dream he'd ever had. Toys coming to life and fighting each other? Was he Gregory Smith in 'Small Soldiers'? All that was missing was one of the tabletop minis having the voice of Tommy Lee Jones. He chuckled at the idea as he stood up from his bed, wiping the crust from his eyes. Kirsten Dunst making an appearance would have made the dream perfect, especially if she looked like herself when cast as Mary Jane in the Tobey Maguire 'Spider-Man' films. Unfortunately, he had to settle for his morning exercises and first daily run instead.

About forty minutes later, he was back home and seated on his living room couch, dressed in sweatshirt and sweatpants and a bit sweaty due to his venture around the suburban neighborhood. In his hands was a mug of steaming hot espresso brewed from his Keurig Coffee Maker. No cream or sugar, just the way he liked it. When finished with the beverage, he would cook and eat a small breakfast and then take a shower. Washing himself twice a day – once in the morning and again in the evening – was his usual routine. At the present time, though, he leaned back into his couch with a comfortable sigh and enjoyed the peace and quiet. A warm and sunny September day without a cloud in the sky and no work to worry about was to be taken advantage of. Maybe he'd turn on the television and watch the news.

"Mon-keigh."

The retired corpsman jumped from his seat with a not-so-manly yelp, spilling coffee over his clothes in the process. By some miracle, none of it fell onto the couch cushions or the living room rug, avoiding the possibility of irremovable stains. Some of it did land on his unprotected left hand, however, causing him to release another cry and a set of profanity in response to the searing pain. After shaking the espresso off or licking it up from his skin and sticking the side of his now lightly burned thumb in his mouth, he turned towards the source of the voice.

It was the small figure of a Howling Banshee standing on the couch's armrest.

"Farseer Celtyra wishes to speak to you," she declared with no small amount of mocking amusement in her tone. Then, just as silently as she sneaked up on him, she carefully dropped to the floor and made her way presumably back towards the basement.

Eyes wide, Marcus watched as the Eldar warrior walked across his living room's floor until disappearing behind the walls of the kitchen. He continued to stare at the empty doorway for about a minute longer, processing the information flooding his brain telling him that his dream had in fact not been a dream at all. Everything involving the Warhammer 40K minis animating and ruining his basement had indeed happened. In a futile last attempt to dissuade himself of this madness, he looked to his ceiling in hopes of finding an intact smoke detector. It was dangling from a couple of wires and nearly cracked in two, the baseball bat he'd used to do the deed still nestled in the far corner of the room.

"This is some _bullshit_."

He would have welcomed Kirsten Dunst knocking on his door.


	3. The Welcome Wagon

**Chapter 3**

**The Welcome Wagon**

He stood at the bottom of the basement staircase, fresh mug of espresso in hand, with a feeling of reluctant acceptance as he looked down upon two groups of former toys turned into living and breathing tiny people. This was his newfound fate; the latest and most unorthodox kick-in-the-balls life decided to throw at him, the clear intention being to make his life as miserable as possible.

And there wasn't a damn thing Marcus could do about it.

The Imperium forces had continued to further entrench themselves using whatever they could scavenge from the entertainment center. The guardsmen manning the barricades would occasionally spare him a glance before whispering to nearby compatriots, likely imagining absurd scuttlebutt. He didn't bother thinking about what they said in gossip beyond that. The retired Navy corpsman was content with their weaponry no longer being pointed in his general direction. The Space Marines were a bit of another matter, though. The fully armored Imperial warriors had established themselves in a static defensive formation facing the other side of the room, weapons never turning away from the Eldar forces still occupying the bar. They were determined in their vigilant watch of the aliens.

As for the Eldar, they too had made the best out of what they could find to fortify their station, though what that entailed happened to include various items that had originated from nearby shelves. Picture frames seemed to be the most valuable, which came as no surprise considering the frames made better cover than broken glass and plastic models. The photos that had been utilized were copies of family portraits, so the usage of the items as makeshift fortifications wasn't that big of a deal.

The Eldar at the very least hadn't made the mistake of devastating his gaming collection. The bar could be repaired, and the photos were easily replaceable, but several of the older games he had stored in the entertainment center were rare and difficult to acquire. The retired Navy corpsman prayed his original factory-sealed NES _Legend of Zelda_ remained unscathed, the untouched gem from his father's teenage years having a price tag in the thousands of dollars. Not even the power of God would be able to protect the Imperials from his wrath if he found the game cartridge damaged.

"Mon-keigh," one of the Howling Banshees called when he approached. She was the only one waiting near the edge of the bar's island, the other alien troops refusing to leave the protection of their defensive positions. Marcus thought she might have been the one whom creeped up on him in the living room, but he couldn't tell. All the female warriors like her appeared the same with their bone white armor and skull-like helmets. "She waits for you below." Then, with nothing more left to say, she silently took cover alongside a sister-in-arms behind one of the several rectangular picture frames on the countertop.

He figured the Howling Banshee was referring to the island's empty storage space, so he proceeded behind the bar after another sip of his coffee. There, he found the two center cabinets of the four in total with their doors wide open. Dropping to his knees revealed the occupants within: a Howling Banshee Exarch with her dual mirrorswords, a Dire Avenger Exarch distinguished by the banner on his back and diresword in hand, and the Farseer still covered head-to-toe in intricately ornate purple and gold Rune Armor. The two exarchs had removed their helmets to reveal their pale elf-like features, but the Farseer – a woman judging by the breast-shaped protrusions on her chest plate – chose instead to keep her face hidden behind her Ghost Helm.

The apparent leader spared the former sailor a brief analytical gaze, then turned to her subordinates. She did not speak a word, but they nodded their heads in a secret understanding all the same before leaving the cabinet via two ropes made of white cotton twine. The lines of string were stretched up and down the height of the island, made taut by the hilts of the power swords buried into the countertop. The aliens must have made an incursion into the basement closet at some point and ransacked Marcus' art supplies, because several more rolls of the twine could be seen laying deeper in the bar cabinet.

"By what name or title should I address you as?" she asked once the exarchs had finished their climb. Her voice was crisp and resolute, yet somehow simultaneously smooth and exotic. Alluring, even. It immediately took hold of the retired corpsman's attention with a vicelike grip.

"Marcus."

"Is that your given name or your family name?"

"Given name."

"What is your full name?"

He raised his eyebrow at that. These weren't the type of questions he had predicted. "Is knowing my full name important?"

"It is, for I wish it to be."

The former sailor almost chuckled at the casual show of pretentiousness. Such behavior was much more aligned with what he expected of an Eldar. "Marcus Anthony Amalfitano."

In response, she brought her elegantly decorated Singing Spear – held at her side blade-up and blunt-end resting on the ground – over her chest as she initiated a slight bow. "Greetings, Marcus Anthony Amalfitano. I am Farseer Celtyra En'fel, of the Craftworld Ulthwé."

That part wasn't expected. Typically, from what Marcus understood of 40K lore, the Eldar as a race had a consistent tendency of treating Humanity like lower lifeforms even in the most diplomatic of settings. Such racism, while not entirely unreasonable given the equally xenophobic tendencies of the Imperium of Man, was always made apparent by the derogatory moniker they had for Humans. So, for a Farseer of all Eldar to give him the respect of introducing herself with a _bow_ was a tad outlandish to say the least.

Making sure as to not look so surprised to the point of embarrassment, he placed his mug of coffee on the floor before quickly leaning his upper body forward to return the gesture. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Farseer Celtyra En'fel."

"May you continue to hold that sentiment in the future," she spoke with a little less steel in her tone. "It is unpopular among your kind."

Farseer Celtyra approached the edge of the cabinet shelf, the gaze of her helmet never turning from him. Then, with a subdued glow from the eye-slits of her helmet, she nonchalantly levitated herself into the air like she was superman, stopping only when she was barely a foot away and at eye level with Marcus. After silently observing him for a moment with a scrutinizing stare, she about-faced and rejoined her fellow Eldar on the island's countertop.

The retired corpsman raised to his feet alongside her ascent. Though she did not look back to him once she landed, he watched her while she went on to further converse with the Dire Avenger Exarch. He almost felt relief as he did so. Their interaction had been far more diplomatic and respectful than he could have possibly anticipated, and it had certainly been better than his initial exchange at gunpoint with the Imperials.

He met the deathly glare of the Howling Banshee Exarch, and Marcus' newfound hopefulness was suddenly turned down a notch. One Eldar with a modicum of propriety towards a Human out of dozens of others who would likely rather see him removed were not optimistic odds. Furthermore, who was to say what any of their motives were, including the Farseer's? Her being from the Craftworld Ulthwé, which was notorious for the metaphysical activities of its Seer Council, was a significant implication of a grander plan in the works. Just imagining the sort of abstract stratagems they might have up their sleeves gave him pause.

Of the Imperium forces, Lieutenant Royce was at least cooperative, and Salamander Space Marines like Pholux had a reputation for being more "liberal" in socialization than other Astartes chapters. Marcus was confident he could handle them. However, he desperately needed a similar ally from among the surreptitious Eldar. The fragile ceasefire between the two factions, which was one born more from the sheer capriciousness of their dilemma, would collapse otherwise. Farseer Celtyra _needed_ to be a helping hand, because he wouldn't be able guarantee the continued secrecy of their existences in the event of renewed hostilities.

The neighbors were already asking questions.

—

_Fifteen Minutes Earlier_

Still attempting to mentally come to terms with the current predicament – and having refilled his coffee in the process – Marcus was preparing to descend into the world of violent sci-fi fantasy his basement had become when four knocks sounded off from the front door of his home. He closed and locked the kitchen's basement entrance in a slightly panicked haste before responding. Two elderly folks were awaiting him outside, all smiles but with concern and a hint of suspicion evident on their faces.

"Mister and Missus Abernathy," he greeted his next-door neighbors in authentic surprise. "Good morning."

The husband of the senior couple, a man of about seventy years sporting a half-bald head with grey hair, was the first to speak in a faint New England accent. He stood a little over a quarter of a foot taller, and so had to look down with his hazel eyes at the retired corpsman's five-foot-ten stature. "Good morning, Marcus. How have you been lately?"

"I've been getting by," Marcus answered somewhat truthfully. "Worked late last night, so I slept in a bit today."

"Tough night on the job?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

The elder gave a kind smile, though that questioning look of his didn't quite go away. "Good, good. What you do is not easy, from what I understand."

"It is what it is," the younger man shrugged. "EMT work is familiar enough."

"Be that as it may, I doubt anyone in the neighborhood would enjoy seeing you overworked. I pray you're taking good care of yourself, as any veteran should."

The former sailor released a weak humorless chuckle, understanding all too well the unsaid insinuations. "I thank you for the sentiment – truly, I do – but you don't need to worry yourself over me. My parents do a good job on that front."

Mr. Abernathy hummed and nodded. "I guess it isn't really our concern." At that, his wife tapped his arm and briefly shot him a pointed glance, causing him to cough into his hand. "Still, did you happen to notice anything peculiar when you returned home last night?"

Marcus raised his eyebrow, giving his best impression of puzzlement. "Can't say I did. Why do you ask?"

The elderly couple shared a look between themselves before Mrs. Abernathy finally decided to add to the conversation. About a decade younger than her husband, she stood noticeably but not too much shorter than the retired corpsman, shoulder-length hair as grey as her husband's yet still carrying a few enduring strands of natural honey blonde here and there. "We woke up in the middle of the night to these odd noises coming from your home. Your motorcycle was parked in your driveway, so..." Hesitating to continue, her lips straightened into a firm line. "Well, we believed you might be able tell us what the cause of all the ruckus was."

Marcus looked into the senior woman's blue eyes with the sincerest expression he could muster, then lied through his teeth with an appearance of mock realization. "Ah, I had the TV on when I passed out last night. I'm really sorry if it woke you up, Missus Abernathy."

Her gaze narrowed, apparently not entirely convinced. "I am surprised you were able to sleep with it so loud."

Before a retort could be made by the former sailor, Mr. Abernathy fortunately came to the rescue. "Cut the man some slack, Merriam – he just explained he'd had a long night. I think we can forgive him for an innocent mistake."

The elderly woman turned to her husband with an exasperated "_did you really just do that?_" look, but then quickly collected herself with a surrendering sigh. She looked back to Marcus with a warmer tint in her eyes. "Oh, I suppose I am being too critical. You're a good hard-working young man, and here we are being nosy senior citizens."

"It's alright, Missus Abernathy," Marcus stated with a small genuine smile. Although he felt guilty for lying to decent people like the Abernathys, he couldn't very well tell them the truth. "It was wrong of me to turn the volume up so high. I'll make sure not to do it again."

"That would be appreciated. Thank you." With that said, she turned to her husband again. "We might as well stop bothering him and return to the house, dear. Lord knows it won't stay clean unless I do something about it."

"Good idea," Mr. Abernathy agreed, sharing a teasing smirk with her. "Lord knows the grass won't be mowed unless I do it." He suffered a good-natured smack to the arm from his wife for the statement, then gave the former sailor his farewell. "You have a good day now, Marcus. And good luck with the coffee stains."

Marcus glanced down at the mentioned marks on his jogging attire and lightly laughed. "Thanks. Take care, Mister and Missus Abernathy."

A moment later, after watching the couple walk away for a few seconds, the retired corpsman closed the front door and released the tension in his nerves with a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. The following sip of espresso was his only respite.

—

_Present Time_

Marcus wasn't going to be able to convince his neighbors with many more white lies if it came down to it. Establishing a lasting accord between the factions was imperative, combined planning for the future a high priority. The alternatives were the looney bin or a government black site. Either way, the retired corpsman would disappear behind the bars of a cell and the miniature people would be meticulously studied like lab rats. The Imperium Astartes and alien Eldar would likely end up on operating tables.

Resolved in beginning the first steps in avoiding undesirable outcomes, he walked to the center of the room and addressed both parties. "Alright, everyone, listen up and pay attention." He gave them some time to focus, then continued. "You've all been way more patient than I had any right hoping. I'm honestly surprised you managed to last through the night in the same room together. With that said, it's time to tell you just what you've gotten yourselves into.

"Whether any of you realize it or not, continuing this truce of yours is nothing less than a matter of survival. I mean it – you guys start shooting and killing each other, and you'll jeopardize everyone's safety, including mine. If so much as a hint of your existence gets out of this room..." The former sailor exhaled audibly as he ran a hand through his hair. "It's game over, man. Game over."

Marcus turned his gaze to the Imperials. He couldn't predict how they would react to what he was about to say next. "The truth is, you have all been transported about forty thousand years into the past. There is no Imperium of Man, and there are no Aeldari Craftworlds." Before any of them could digest the information, he quickly followed up.

"Ladies and gentlemen... the current year, in the Human calendar, is two thousand and twelve. Welcome to planet Earth."


	4. First Steps

**Chapter 4**

**First Steps**

"That was an interesting announcement you made."

"Mmhm."

"Riled up some feathers."

"Right."

"It almost sounded like an officer's speech."

"Huh."

"You sure you weren't one?"

"Yeah."

"Shame. You might have made a decent lieutenant."

"My ass."

Royce snorted with a shake of his head but didn't say anything more. Having done whatever he could with his platoon after the previous short but eventful briefing, he was now standing on the side of the basement coffee table to Marcus' left, the yells of the shaken but resolute Commissar keeping the other guardsmen proper. He wasn't alone. Both Astartes sergeants were in his company, though their attention rarely strayed from the other half of the wooden furniture.

To Marcus' right was the Eldar delegation consisting of Farseer Celtyra and the two aspect warrior exarchs he'd seen prior, their heads no longer free of their helmets. They remained huddled together in their own circle, ignoring the hateful stares of the Space Marines as they quietly communicated among themselves. Marcus swore they might not have been speaking vocally at all. The only indications that they were conversing with each other were their nearly imperceptible movements of body language.

As for the retired corpsman, he'd taken a seat on the sofa after his big declaration, having decided to let the two factions absorb the news he'd given them on their own. It had taken a couple minute of hysteria among the Imperial Guardsmen, particularly once they learned from the Astartes that "Earth" and "Holy Terra" were one and the same, but things eventually settled down well enough for a sort of diplomatic summit to be arranged. In all honestly, everything had gone surprisingly smoother than imagined, which brought them to where they all were now.

It was a quiet gathering insofar with the only words spoken having been between Marcus and Lieutenant Royce, and the Imperial Guard officer had done a fine job of keeping up an outward appearance of composure. The Space Marines, to the contrary, hadn't so much as said a word since the announcement, preferring to remain ever watchful and wary of the alien Eldar. However, Marcus could tell that Royce was bothered. Not because of any visible display of distress, but simply because the Lieutenant was more talkative, even to the point of producing subtle jokes. It's precisely what the former sailor was familiar with amid experienced conventional military.

When faced with a pile of shit, they talked it off and poked it with humor.

"**How long must we suffer the presence of these xenos?**" Gielux abruptly snarled, at last breaking his silence. The Ultramarine ensured his volume was loud enough for the aliens to overhear. "**Just the sight of them makes my trigger finger itch. Let us begin this dreadful conference already so that we may be done with it!**"

The Salamander sergeant added his own opinion on the matter. "**I too do not desire to be near the Eldar for any greater length of time than is necessary.**"

In reaction to the obvious instigation, the Howling Banshee Exarch turned to them with a piercing glare. She was on the verge of returning the Imperials' sentiment when Farseer Celtyra stopped her with a small raising of the hand. Denied by her superior, the alien warrior stepped back into the three-person huddle and stayed muted, although it was telling by her intermittent glances at the Space Marines that her fiery personality – notably uncharacteristic of her species and rank – had not been fully tempered.

It wasn't until about a minute later that Celtyra decided to turn her attention to the others. The Farseer approached the center of the table with her companions in tow, then lifted her head to look at Marcus. "We are prepared to commence this forum."

"**So it _can_ speak**," Gielux jabbed. "**I was beginning to wonder if the xenos were even capable of Gothic.**" It was a provoking lie, of course. Space Marines were well-aware of the aliens' capacity for understandable communication and diplomacy.

In contrast to the Howling Banshee Exarch, whom once again appeared wanting for pain upon the transgressor, the Eldar leader calmly ignored the Ultramarine with stone-cold patience and kept her gaze locked on Marcus. Her refusal to acknowledge the augmented soldier served to agitate him further.

Sensing that the situation could deteriorate into a confrontation if allowed to fester, the retired corpsman took the chance to interject with one of the bigger details that had been bugging him. "Calm down. None of you are speaking Gothic anyways."

Everyone on the table focused on Marcus as if he'd grown a second head. Royce was the one to voice the unbelieving question. "Pardon? What do you mean we are not speaking Gothic?"

"Exactly how I said it," the former sailor sighed. "You're all speaking English, not Gothic. And don't ask me how, 'cause I don't have a damn clue."

The Ultramarine sergeant was not amused. "**This is absurd! How can we be speaking a tongue we have never before heard?!**"

"**And how do we know it is not the other way around?**" Pholux speculated with a cooler head. "**What if it is you who is speaking Gothic?**"

"My neighbors just gave me a surprise visit before I came down here," Marcus explained. "So, unless everyone in my neighborhood just up and learned a language that isn't going to be invented until thousands of years from now, I'm speaking good ol' English."

They all quieted down at that, the exception being a frustrated grunt from Gielux. Royce was again the first one to express his thoughts after some contemplation. "The present circumstances grow more concerning."

_No shit, Sherlock_, the retired Navy corpsman thought. He kept his sarcasm to himself. "Yeah, but it's honestly the least of your problems."

Celtyra interrupted before that line of conversation could follow through. "On the topic of our displacement in time – I have a question for you, Marcus Amalfitano."

"**It addresses you by _name_?**" was the Ultramarine's heated response to her word usage. The Lieutenant also looked flabbergasted, while the Salamander sergeant stared in suspecting silence.

The former sailor ignored the Imperials, wishing the Farseer hadn't done what she did. Her publicly displaying this incredulous and inexplicable favoritism was not going to win him any favors with anyone, her own people included. "As long as it isn't about _how_ you got here. I'm as clueless in that department as you are."

"I do not expect any less from you," she said matter-of-factly, sounding somewhat condescending. "However, my curiosity drives me to ponder the knowledge you have. If we have truly been transported so distant into the past as you say, how is it that you know of us at all?"

He paused with lukewarm mug of espresso halfway to his mouth and a shared gaze with the Farseer, his shoulders feeling heavier. It is a question Marcus had been expecting but was still unprepared for. How did one reveal to another that their existence, in every way that mattered, was fake? Explain that their entire life was a fabrication of fantasy and science-fiction, created by a group of enthusiasts sitting around a tabletop game? How could that concept be properly conveyed in words? He didn't doubt the Eldar and Astartes could sufficiently handle the revelation given time, but the normal soldiers of the Imperium – those with memories of families, loved ones, and livelihoods outside of the Astra Militarum – would likely suffer greatly, more than they already were after learning of the current year and location.

His attention drifted to the Imperial entourage to see them peering right back, the three tiny Humans on his coffee table carrying mixed expressions of interest in the inquiry, eagerness for the answer, and new mistrust in his narrative. Celtyra had shot him a loaded question intentionally designed to put him in the spotlight, and it had succeeded perfectly. With a nervous lick of his lips, he chose the only route that made any sense: the truth.

Marcus told them of Warhammer 40K. He told them of how everything they knew, everything they believed to be real and true, was an invention. He told them of how everything they had ever bled for and loved, all the pain they and their people had ever endured, was part of a playground for shameless entertainment and amusement. He told of how, before arriving in his basement, they had all been nothing but simple toys and playthings; the very products of the game he too delved in. He told the Imperials of how they were typically the end of jokes, their war cries and ideals laughed at and parodied. He told the Eldar of how they were simply reiterations of entities from Human mythology and folklore, nothing about their depiction being particularly unique or special.

What followed was as predictable as it was chaotic. Denials and counters. Insults and accusations. As anticipated, neither faction believed the retired corpsman at first, needing evidence to be provided through what could be pulled up on his phone's internet browser. Even then, there was panicked skepticism. Farseer Celtyra reacted to it all with a single deep breath – chest slowly expanding and collapsing – before retreating to the bar area with a tense Dire Avenger and a minutely shaking Howling Banshee. Lieutenant Royce paled and lost himself in thought while his two Space Marine companions, whom typically stood together as firm brothers-in-arms, contended in an impassioned back-and-forth. It was a miracle the Imperials and the Eldar didn't start killing each other again.

"**The xenos must have known**," Gielux exclaimed, searching for an easy scapegoat. "**They planned this!**"

Pholux shook his head. "**Loath I am to admit it, I do not believe even the Eldar can claim responsibility.**"

The Ultramarine aimed a caustic glare at Marcus in response. "**_Heretic_. The others may have been deceived, but I will not be fooled by this foul trickery! I am not blind to your friendship with the xenos!**"

"**Compose yourself, Adept-Sergeant.**" The green Space Marine then stood between Gielux and the former sailor, voice firm but not uncontrolled. "**We have no reason to believe the man is lying. He has provided us with amble evidence.**"

"**Is that so?**" the Ultramarine asked sarcastically. "**Tell me, _Salamander_. When did we begin trusting the words of unbelievers and profligates?**"

A low and gruff grumble escaped Pholux. "**Listen to yourself. Did you abandon sense for foolishness? Are you a Black Templar, or are you an Astartes of Ultramar?**"

Gielux scoffed. "**Do not deign to understand the ways of my chapter. If I was either fool or Templar, you would have already witnessed me tear the heretic and his xeno allies apart limb-from-limb!**"

As the arguments and heated debates continued to rage, Marcus took all the anger, frustration, and confusion directed towards him with blankness. What else could he do? He'd just explained that their very beings were a lie – that they had been brought into this world by some cruel magic far beyond comprehension. Was he to comfort them with kind words as if they were young children? Was he to patronize them with falsehoods as if they were the handicapped? Did any expect him to stand up and declare an intention to take care of them like some holy prophet? He wasn't the Imperium's Emperor or an Eldar god. He was one man going through each day in stride and doing the best he could not to fall prey to an episode, and that was before current events flew onto his lap. None of these people should have become his responsibility.

So, he spent the next minutes soundlessly watching the mayhem take place around him, morbidly understanding that this was not a game he had found himself thrown into. This wasn't a joke or a feelgood comedy. This wasn't a fairytale where everyone would turn out okay, have a laugh, and settle around a campfire at the end to sing Kumbaya. This was reality turning itself upside down into a malicious nightmare. Lives were going to be ruined. People were going to get hurt. Some might even die. It was the inescapable truth of the matter, and not a soul could hope to stop it.

He needed more ibuprofen.

—

_Later that day..._

Marcus arrived at Planet Hollywood approximately fifteen minutes earlier than the eight o' clock deadline. After a little under an hour drive from his home in Greenville and through modest Manhattan traffic, nearly twenty minutes of finding open parking, and then another ten minutes of walking through the masses in the streets, he was finally standing outside the restaurant's front entrance in crowded Times Square. Like every night, the city center was as bright as it would have been during the middle of the afternoon, countless lights and massive advertisement boards providing a level of illumination a few steps below blinding. Regardless of how many years went by or how often he visited, the bustling cityscape would never get old for the trueborn New Yorker.

"Amalfitano!"

By the time the retired corpsman noticed, Jake was already standing at his side and shaking him good-naturedly with a hand on the shoulder.

"McLaughlin, you Irish shmuck. Ya almost gave me a heart attack!"

The taller freckled ginger ignored the pointed glare sent his way and boomed with contagious laughter. He was sporting a short boxed beard, and his clothing consisted of an unzipped black leather jacket and a pair of fit jeans of the same color. The casual t-shirt he had underneath was a sharp red that matched his hair. "You're getting rusty, you Italian prick!"

Immediately twisting his lips into a wide smile, Marcus began laughing as well before he locked hands with Jake and brought the former marine into a brotherly embrace. When they parted, they went through the motions of a well-practiced custom handshake that went on for several seconds straight, the gesture ending with a finger-waving exploding effect. The two man-children celebrated the successful shake with even bigger grins and a loud "Yeeeah!"

"It's real good to see you," the former sailor declared cheerfully. The weight of the day's problems seemed to suddenly disappear with the appearance of his good friend.

"Same, bro." Jake sounded just as delighted to be there in-person. "Keeping up over Facebook just isn't the same."

Marcus half-snorted and half-chuckled. "Shit, man, I feel you. That's why we're hangin' out every chance we get while you're in New York."

"You're damn right we are," the former marine affirmed enthusiastically. "When was the last time we had a drink together? Two years ago?"

"Just about. It was a couple weeks after I got my D-D-two-fourteen."

"That's right – I think that was the last time I met up with Rodriguez too."

The retired corpsman sighed, though still with a smile on his face. "Yeah, it sucks you weren't able to come up here when he did. That fourth of July party was lit."

"You know I couldn't have gone off-the-rails like that. Not with the wife and kids around, anyway." Jake then turned around and stepped sideways to reveal the woman and two young children that had been waiting behind him with expectant looks. "Now that I mention them, allow me to finally introduce you to the family."

The Irish American's arm motioned to the children first. "These are my boys, Charlie and Sam."

The two twins stood shy of his hip and looked nigh exactly alike, skin pale white and eyes a shade of blue similar to their father. However, unlike their father's red hair, they carried trimmed mops of soft brown atop their heads. The boy on the left was wearing a hooded burgundy autumn jacket, while the other wore a navy blue hoodie. It was the one on the right that kept his hood up, bashfully attempting to hide himself in the material of the clothing, as his brother on the left spared a wave of hello which Marcus returned. Both siblings didn't appear any older than four years of age

"And this is the heart of my life," Jake declared in an obnoxiously romantic tone, arm opening wide to accept the woman in a loving hug. "Marcus, meet Amanda. Amanda, meet the Italian Stallion himself."

His wife was undeniably a looker, her brunette hair, light brown eyes, angular face, thin lips, and warm skin giving off a strong Central European impression of her ancestry. Her buttoned hoodless parka was a smooth chocolate color, and her denim jeans were baby blue. She wasn't a supermodel by any means, but her natural beauty was enough to prompt a pinch of jealousy from Marcus for the briefest of instances, and her bright toothy smile was infectious. Jake was a lucky man.

"It's great to finally meet you face-to-face," Amanda claimed heartily in a light Southwestern drawl. She reached out from her husband's embrace. "He's told me so much about you!"

Marcus accepted her greeting hand and shook it with a smirk. "All lies, I'm sure."

"I've told her nothing but the truth," the former marine snickered in mock indignation.

"She wouldn't be so happy to see me if you did."

Amanda giggled slyly. "You give my husband too much credit."

As the married couple joked around at his expense, the retired corpsman feigned offense by slapping his hand to his chest and exaggerating a slacked jaw. When his stomach interrupted the moment with a growl, announcing his hunger to the world, the two only grew louder. The twins also unapologetically giggled at the sound. "Let's head inside," he suggested through his own slightly embarrassed laughter. "I could eat a cow right about now."

"We can tell" said Jake and his wife simultaneously.

Marcus almost gagged at how cute and compatible they were. Nonetheless, seeing his good friend so lively warmed the former sailor; it was good to know that at least someone had managed to find happiness after their service. Jake was certainly not undeserving of growing old with a devoted partner by his side.

They were seated in the center dining area of the bustling establishment a few minutes later, Jake and Amanda having made reservations for the planned get-together a week beforehand. The wait for a table would have likely been at least thirty minutes long had they not done so. Planet Hollywood was always busy in the evenings, including on weekdays.

"So, how's E-M-S coming along?" the former marine asked as they browsed the menu.

An extension had been added to the square four-person table the waitress had assigned them, making it rectangular and adding room for two additional chairs. Jake and Marcus sat at the opposing far ends while his family occupied the longs sides. Amanda coveted the chair closest to her husband on his left, and the twins seated themselves to his right. The closest seat to Marcus' right was empty.

"Going well so far," the former sailor answered, mildly distracted. "Reminds me a bit of that blueside duty I did before E-A-S."

Part of his attention was on the menu – the Big Bacon burger was looking mighty tasty – but another part was busy occasionally sending clandestine glances to their waitress as she went about conducting her work. She was a cute little blonde with green eyes that looked like she was fresh into her college years. Petite but still curvy in the right places. She'd shared a look and a small yet suggestive smile with Marcus when she had brought the group to their table; it was quite clear she'd eyed him over and opted out the retired corpsman as the "single" of the party. Since then, he noticed she would regularly peek back at him as well.

"It better be," Jake huffed. "Took you over a year and a half to get that kind of work."

Marcus focused a tad more on the conversation. "You know how it is."

"I do." The former marine released a moderately frustrated sigh. "But it shouldn't have to be like that. I'd bet money you knew more about medical than most of the students you took classes with."

The retired corpsman chuckled. "I was actually teaching the classes half the time. The school even paid me for tutoring."

"Exactly what I'm saying! They should have made you a tech as soon as you got out, but instead they made you waste time and money studying what you already know. It's bullshit, bro." Jake's use of language around his kids earned him a slap from Amanda, but he waved it off.

Marcus shrugged. He'd long accepted the fallacies of civilian life and the dumpster fire that was Veterans' Affairs. "It's not like my knowledge was perfect. I can do trauma all day every day like any good corpsman, but cardio-vascular and all that extra stuff we didn't really need to worry about is a whole 'nother ball game. E-M-S don't just deal with a bunch of healthy twenty-something year-olds – large parts of my work-days are just taking care of old people with heart or lung problems."

"You still shouldn't have needed to go through so much hassle. Doc deserves better than that." If only the former marine knew how pertinent, in more ways than one, that statement truly was.

"Were it so easy."

Before the waitress returned to take their order of drinks, Marcus briefly eyed the empty chair to his right once more. He made sure to ignore it for the rest of the night.


	5. Duty to Something More

**Chapter 5**

**Duty to Something More**

He woke up to a finger poking his cheek, the instinctual urge to grab it and retaliate barely suppressed. After opening his eyes and giving them a moment to adjust to the morning sunlight streaming in through the nearby window, he was greeted with the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling and a youthful blonde woman standing over him wearing a pink bathrobe. It was the Planet Hollywood waitress from last night. His memory vaguely recalled her name was Jessica.

"You have to get up," she claimed, though not with any urgency. It appeared she was in the middle of applying fresh makeup, her eyeliner being incomplete. "It's a quarter to eleven."

Hearing that, Marcus took a deep breath before rising from the bedsheets, the smell of perfume, marijuana, and sex entering his nose in an unappealing mixture. His nose wrinkled slightly, and as he wiped the crust from the corners of his eyes, he noticed the woman was already walking away, likely to finish her cosmetics. It wasn't exactly a welcoming awakening.

"Good morning," he said amiably. A mumbled return through a closed bathroom door was the response. An awkward silence followed.

During their bedroom proclivities the previous night, the former sailor didn't have a chance to acquaint himself with her mid-town fifth-floor studio apartment. He did not take the opportunity to do so now. The words were written on the wall, and he truly wasn't all that surprised or bothered. It had not been his first one-night stand, nor would it likely be his last. Such was the life of a man who made it clear that he wasn't prepared for a real relationship in his life. Not again. Not yet. Their night together had served its purpose of transiently filling a need in their lives.

Like on similar past occasions, he ignored the very small ache in his chest that didn't belong.

Marcus was outside the building on East 63rd Street about ten minutes later, having departed with little more than a simple goodbye and no promises of future connections by either of them. Wearing the same casual navy blue button-up shirt and black jeans from the previous night beneath his black and red windbreaker, he took a long inhale of the chilly Manhattan air before reaching into his pockets. He was puffing a lit Marlboro cigarette a moment later.

There was no rush. His beloved motorcycle, a 2008 Suzuki GSX-R600, was parked in a public garage half of a city block down in the direction of the East River, and Greenville was about another hour drive away if traffic was unimpeded. Walking down the street and finding a place to grab some breakfast was an enticing idea. Maybe he'd even use the free time he had to meander a bit and make a visit to Central Park, for it had been quite a while since his last visit to the borough's largest parkland. Anything that prolonged his time away from home was a welcome diversion.

In advance to anything else, though, he'd give Jake a call.

—

It was almost five o'clock when he returned, standing outside the front door of his flat with the lock's key in hand. It wasn't as if he could stay anywhere else without being a burden, and there was no chance in hell that he was about to run away from the problems awaiting him. Marcus was neither raised by his parents nor trained by the Navy to be that sort of man. Damn the torpedoes; he'd face whatever obstacles and challenges that came his way head-on.

He unlocked the door and walked inside with fresh determination in his step. All was quiet as he removed his shoes and jacket, and the interior was barely illuminated by the day's setting sun. Whether the silence was a good sign or not was yet to be decided. The air was free of the scent of burning material, so it was at least a good start. However, the surprise came as soon as he entered the kitchen, having desired a drink of water only for the flipping of the light switch to reveal from the darkness a fireteam of four Howling Banshees on the countertop.

The retired corpsman maintained his dignity this time around by not jumping with a yelp. "For fuck's sake," he still shakily exhaled. "You and your friends catching me off guard like this better not become a regular thing."

It was impossible to tell the female Eldar apart from one another. None were the exarch, and they all wore the same armor and carried the same armaments. They might as well have been clones. One of them then stepped forward, prompting him to assume she was the fireteam leader.

"Farseer Celtyra wishes to speak to you again," a familiar voice declared in a slightly annoyed tone. She sounded like the original Howling Banshee that had snuck up on him in the living room yesterday.

"Of course she does," Marcus sighed. He made for the cabinet to retrieve a glass cup and the pharmaceutical bottle of ibuprofen before continuing. "Were you sitting here in my kitchen just to tell me that?"

When no response came, he turned to them with a raised eyebrow. They had chosen to ignore him and were already huddled back together. "How long have you been waiting here?"

The fireteam leader spared him another glance, her voice now carrying a noticeable bite. "Do not delay any longer, Mon-keigh."

_Excuse me for trying to be considerate._ His lips twisted in a grimace, but he kept the unpleasant thoughts to himself. It went without saying that his question regarding why four of them had been sent to deliver the message, rather than just the one like last time, would also be silently neglected.

The former sailor eventually left the kitchen with nothing more said to the aliens, although not before filling his glass with ice from the freezer and tap water from the sink faucet, using the cold beverage to gulp down three small red tablets. His home was supposed to be the one place in the world where he could relax without question, but now it managed to stress him out. The walls felt claustrophobic and made him uneasy. The air was heavy in his lungs and made him short of breath. Merely being in the presence of the tiny people currently occupying the building induced a pounding pain in his sinuses. To think it had been only less than forty-eight hours...

Adrift in his own devices, Marcus's body was functionally on autopilot as he descended the basement staircase. A miniature rocket-propelled projectile zipping within inches past his nose and detonating like a firecracker on the nearby wall, however, brought him back to reality. He almost slipped and fell down the remaining stairs.

"Jesus Christ!" Realizing just how close he had been to suffering a small bolter round to the head, he looked toward the forces of the Imperium with an irate glare. "Who the fuck just took a shot at me?!"

His question was answered in the form of a group of Guardsmen already in the process of tackling Commissar Olchenick to the ground, the woman's zealous screams filling the basement air as she vainly struggled against them. Two more stray rounds managed to discharge from her bolter, iron grip refusing to relinquish the weapon without difficulty before the soldiers pried it from her hands. Fortunately, no one was harmed, although the commissar's raving continued for several seconds longer.

"This heresy will not go unanswered! By the will of the Emperor, I will kill you all! I swear it until my dying day! All who deny his holy existence will suffer his wrath, and it will be as you lay on your knees, begging for mercy that will not come, when you will know true- AHCK-MMMPFF!"

Lieutenant Royce gagged her himself. Though it didn't stop Olchenick from hatefully mumbling through the cloth, it did the job of muting her insufferable screeching. The action also served to put a satisfied smile on the officer's face, an expression that remained as he watched his Guardsmen bound her hands behind her back. "I've been wanting to do that for a long time, Luv."

At that point, Marcus had cautiously approached the entertainment center enough to see the Commissar's brief look of betrayal – even hurt – before it twisted back into a disdainful scowl. Royce would have already been six feet under if looks could kill, and it was obvious that Olchenick presently wished for that to be the case more than anything. She otherwise made no new attempts to speak or growl through the gag.

"Keep your damn people under control," the retired corpsman mandated severely in a low voice. "Taking a bolter to the face ain't exactly on my itinerary."

The Imperial Guard officer's smile vanished, a grimace replacing it. He pointedly stared right back. "You are not a very popular person right now, Amalfitano. You left these men and women with more questions than answers, and your extended absence since yesterday evening has been unhelpful, to say the least. I have been doing the best I can to 'keep my men under control' given the circumstances. Perhaps if you had been here to aid in my endeavors, the Commissar would not have attempted to execute you."

That last remark flared Marcus' ire. "My life does not revolve around your problems. You're all grown-ass adults more than capable enough of taking care of yourselves. If I want to hang out with a friend I haven't seen in years and spend a night with a woman, I don't need to inform you as if you're my mother."

The retired corpsman realized his mistake after the fact. Royce appeared absolutely scandalized. "While I was breaking my back to keep the peace amongst my Guardsmen and the Astartes, you were off _gallivanting_?"

"My personal life is none of your goddamn business."

"Were you not the one parading the banner of mutual cooperation?!"

Hand rising to massage the sides of his forehead, Marcus grumbled under his breath. He _had_ spent about half of the previous day convincing the Imperials and the Eldar to impermanently work together. Yet, that didn't mean he was entirely in the wrong, or that he would easily admit to such. He wasn't a Guardsman, so Royce ultimately had no authority over him no matter how much shared-understanding they held as fellow veterans. Marcus was constrained by no shackles other than the ones of his own creation. One way or another, he'd make sure the Imperial Guard officer reached that conclusion sooner rather than later.

He noted then how quiet the room suddenly was, spurring him to glance at the surrounding Guardsmen. They had all paused whatever activities they'd been conducting, ranging from standing watch to eating an Imperium-equivalent MRE, to observe the argument taking place. Some stared with sneers aimed at the retired Navy corpsman, and others with bewilderment at the scene. It was likely the first time many of the grunts had ever witnessed anyone other than a Commissar speak to a commanding officer so candidly.

As for the two groups of Space Marines, both the Ultramarines and the Salamanders minded their own business for the most part. They appeared to care little for anything beyond remaining observant of their "Xeno allies". The sole exemption was Sergeant Geilux, who was practically radiating discontent and barely restrained bloody murder. As the opposite of the blue Astartes, Pholux was distracting himself with prayer and ritual, incense burner hung above his bolter as he knelt in a meditative posture. It was surprising how peaceful the green armored super-soldier looked during the activity, his patience enviable.

Marcus' gaze found Olchenick's. Despite being gagged, the fanatic managed somewhat to form a smirk around the material tightened between her lips, her eyes narrowed as if to mock him. He briefly wondered what the crazed woman could possibly be smug about before looking back to Royce.

"Look, you aren't the only ones with a lot of shit on your plate," stated the former sailor. "Now yeah, maybe I should have said something last night, but – reality check – I'm not always going to be around twenty-four-seven to babysit you guys. In case you weren't listening when I told you yesterday: I have a job and a family, both of which are going to regularly keep me out of the house for a minimum of ten hours a day, five days a week.

"And during that time, you all need to figure out how to be self-sufficient, because no one else is going to be around to help you. There ain't no chain of command or supply trains keeping up the support. For all intents and purposes, I'm your only M-S-R, so you motherfuckers are on your own while I'm out of the house."

The Imperial Guard officer momentarily clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. "Few of us here are unfamiliar with being self-supporting and strained on resources," he declared relatively calmly. "The problem, however, arises when you consider our unorthodox situation. My men are enduring many harsh truths right now – for Emperor's sake, _I _am still trying to process the bloody information.

"All that I ask, is that you do not again leave us uninformed when you decide to spend a night out and about fornicating. Is that truly too much to be required of you?"

Marcus answered with a displeased sigh. "No... I guess it isn't."

"Thank you." Royce mellowed just a little then, his voice sounding a tad softer. "I realize that these are trying times for us all, you certainly not the least so. We are Human, regardless of size, and that should be all the reason needed for us to stand united."

The Guardsman's shift to a more compassionate tone served to further annoy the American. Frankly, he didn't care if Royce was more "understanding". He didn't need another goody-two-shoes in his life spouting motivating speeches and ideals. He wasn't even bothered that the Imperial left out the Eldar in that last statement, because simply the way the smaller man spoke, all noble and high-and-mighty like, was irritating. Marcus would have been perfectly content to live the rest of his days without ever again associating himself with military officers and their boy scout mentalities.

Es and Os were two very different worlds for very different reasons, the lines separating them clear enough to be seen by anyone who wasn't denser than a pile of bricks. Sure, not all officers behaved in that holier-than-thou manner, but in his experience those were the exceptions and not the rule. Forty thousand years of Human history wasn't going to change that.

"Whatever you say," the retired corpsman replied dismissively, wishing to move on from what he perceived to have been a huge waste of time. "Just make sure your men don't try to kill me, and I'll make sure you all survive long enough to figure out how to make things go back to normal."

Any tenderness that had been shown by Royce was pulled back, the officer's features turning frigid but no less determined. He finally got the message. "We all have a duty to something more than ourselves, Amalfitano."

Marcus grunted but didn't say more on the matter. Instead, he chose to turn away from the Imperials and approach the Eldar forces, confident that Farseer Celtyra would at least provide a less unpleasant conversation even with her pompous mannerisms.

An air of "abnormality" was present in the bar area, for all the oddness that came when the word was used to describe the Aeldari. When they were as silent and motionless as statues prior, all organized and unified in their mutual goal of staying isolated from and defensive of the Imperium troops, now they were less so, the occasional Guardian found to be conversing and gossiping with another. The majority of them remained disciplined alongside their more veteran Aspect Warriors, but it was nonetheless a perceptible change in the atmosphere.

The Dire Avenger exarch was the first distinguishable figure he saw on the bar's island. He hesitated to gain the alien soldier's attention, at that moment recalling his failure to actually learn any of the Eldar leaders' names other than the farseer's. It was another to-do added to the list. "Is Farseer Celtyra in the back?"

No response was given at first. The exarch, busy with performing maintenance on his shuriken pistol, hands going through the extensively repeated practice of disassembling then reassembling the weapon, didn't move one extra muscle in recognition. Marcus would have thought the alien soldier was ignoring him had one of the standard Dire Avengers from the nearby barricades not come forward.

"He does not speak your language," the Eldar man said in a voice that sounded just slightly feminine.

"Can you translate?"

"No."

"... Why not?"

"Exarch Pashaan need not be bothered, Mon-keigh," the Eldar said calmly, although not without an undertone of aversion. He pointed to the back of the island. "Exarch Forviel is not presently occupied."

It appeared that the Eldar, in their own way, were no less disagreeable this day than the Imperials were. _At least the Exarchs have names now_, Marcus thought, grudgingly accepting whatever silver lining he could get. Then came the realization that the exarch in question he'd be speaking to would be the Howling Banshee one, the same who had a pole shoved exceptionally far up her ass. A low groan left him as he walked to the back of the island.

Exarch Forviel's helmetless head was already staring daggers at the former sailor by the time he lowered to even level. He'd only had a brief glimpse of her face the last time, and he was forced to admit that had she not carried an ugly frown, she'd be pleasing to look at, the elvish charm inherent of most Eldar playing a part in her smooth and narrow features. Her hair, fashioned in a small bun, was as dark as a moonless night. The purple of her irises was a strikingly exotic Byzantium. If she were Human, her appearance would have given the impression of a healthy and fit woman in her early thirties.

"What do you want, Mon-keigh?" she asked with brazen enmity.

Marcus did not want to deal with her attitude. It was better to get straight to the point. "Where's Farseer Celtyra?"

Forviel snorted in such a way that she unironically sounded like a certain Human woman he knew. It told him all he needed to know about what the Howling Banshee thought of him. "Will you vacate my presence if I answer?"

The retired corpsman returned the gesture in-kind. "You need to ask?"

Her scowl deepened. "She is on the level above – for what purpose, I cannot possibly discern. A mon-keigh's filthy bedchambers..." Then she shivered. "Such is amongst the last holes I would ever desire to locate myself."

Figuring the exarch was overdramatizing out of spite, Marcus had only enough mental fortitude left to give the tiny woman a dirty look and shake his head. There were no sarcastic remarks or witty word-play. He just walked away.

The former sailor conceded, however, that the exarch had brought up a solid point, even if she did so for the wrong reasons. What was Celtyra doing in his bedroom without his permission? She had no right encroaching on his privacy like that. If she wanted to gain insight, there were better – more respectful – ways than invading his personal space. Or was she trying to make some obscure point? A power play, perhaps? His mind pondered this as he returned to the upper floor, the time between steps shortening the closer he got to his destination.

He also didn't bother pestering the Howling Banshees in his kitchen about why they hadn't told him of the farseer's whereabouts in the first place.

The bedroom door was open by a sliver when he was abruptly hit with a severe migraine. The pain lasted but a second or two, feeling as if threatening to burst from his forehead only for it to fade as quickly as it arrived. A familiar lingering ache was what remained by the time he finished walking into the room. He nearly slammed the door behind him in his confused annoyance, but opening his eyes, which had been forced shut by the discomfort, provided him with something extraordinary.

Standing to the right of his bed, gazing outside the window and basking in the beginning of the evening twilight, was a full-sized Farseer Celtyra lacking nothing but her Singing Spear. Marcus stared slack-jawed at the armored Aeldari woman for some time. Eventually, it was she who broke the silence, looking at him from over her shoulder.

"I had thought you might be more comfortable conversing with someone akin to your stature," she said matter-of-factly.

He almost tripped over his words. "But how?"

Celtyra turned back to the vista beyond the glass in front of her. With little foliage, trees, or other homes to largely obstruct the view to the West, the window provided a nice view of the setting sun at the end of every day before it dipped beneath the cover of the neighboring woodlands. "There are billions of neurons in a sentient being's brain, all shooting off endless streams of trillions of bioelectrical signals. Each one is a messenger, and the signals their parcels, working together to perform every minute function we perform. Every step we make; every breath we take; every word we speak; every thought in our minds – it is all made possible by these messengers and their ceaseless work.

"What I am doing here and now, is the simple task of providing some of your own messengers with parcels and then pointing them to the correct destinations."

Marcus was again faced with the fact that he was speaking to someone with genuine psychic abilities. "So this is just an illusion?"

"In a manner of speaking, although I would not describe it so lightly." She finally turned her body away from the window to begin approaching him. "What is an illusion? Or, more accurately, how do we define reality? Do we base the judgement on the world we see around us, or the aromas that we breathe in, or the sounds that we hear, or the sensations upon our skin?"

The Eldar farseer paused her dialogue once she settled fewer than three feet away. Marcus was neither a tall man nor a short man, standing a little over a healthy five feet and ten inches. But with her helmeted gaze looking downward to lock with his helmetless eyes, she raised above him by about a full head.

"Give me your arm."

"What?"

"Give me your arm," she repeated plainly.

After a moment's hesitation, he slowly raised his left arm to chest height. No sooner did he do so, and with a fluid speed faster than he could react to, the alien warrior snatched his wrist in the grip of her hand, jolting a shaky breath out of the Human man as he took a step back.

She spoke with a voice so calm that it sent a chill down his spine. "Is this 'just' an illusion?"

He was speechless. The reality that Celtyra had such power over him struck the retired corpsman with the force of a hammer blow. If she could enact such abilities by manipulating the very functions of his brain, what else could she do? What was stopping her from scrambling his head from the inside out, or tossing him wall-to-wall like a toy with her telekinetic powers? She could kill him or brutally cripple his body and mind, with little to no effort if she so chose.

Between the powers at her disposal, and her present refusal to violently utilize them, Marcus wasn't sure of which he was more afraid.

Suddenly, for a brief instance, the alien woman gave a soft giggle, followed by her grasp on his wrist loosening into a gentler hold. "So easily frightened," she teased before releasing his limb. "I apologize."

The former sailor could not stop the nervous chuckle that left his lips. He suspected her apology wasn't sincere, for there was no mistaking Celtyra's actions as anything other than a show of force. Now more than ever, it was obvious that she was attempting to manipulate him into submission, carrying intimidation in one hand and sympathy in the other while simultaneously behaving as the wisest person in the room. It was a valid tactic to use against the young and inexperienced. When people respected and admired that which they as equally feared, they became more complacent and easily controlled.

However, contrary to what she believed, Marcus had been down this road before, and he was nothing if not adaptive.

"Don't worry about it," he said after a deep breath, resisting the urge to rub his wrist. The retired corpsman straightened his back and presented himself confidently, wholly opposite to how he initially reacted and legitimately felt. "Just surprised me, is all."

"I did not intend to come off as threatening, nor discomfort you." She almost sounded genuinely caring. "If you wish, I can speak to you as we have prior."

His response was fast and blunt. "I'm fine."

At that, the farseer hesitated, but only for a second. "I see." The previous warmth in her voice had reverted to a familiar coldness.

She consequently turned away from him and proceeded back to the window. "You are not wary of me? I find it hard to believe my capabilities do not trouble you."

_She caught on fast_, he thought bitterly.

Just as Celtyra had underestimated his willful personality, so did he her keen analytical skills. Even taking into account her psychic abilities, it was too easy to forget _what_ she was, what her life as an Eldar meant, and what her occupation as a farseer entailed. Remove the armor and ignore the pointy elf ears, and what you had beneath was still a woman. If the standards for Aeldari attractiveness were anything to go by, she likely had a pretty face hidden as well. It was a trap unintentionally made for anyone with twenty-first-century Western tolerance.

There was only one real path through this discussion that would allow it to end reasonably, and that meant Marcus had to eat some of his pride. "To be honest, your powers terrify me."

He doubted this had been the first time someone had told her similarly, yet her head snapped back in his direction as if surprised regardless. The former sailor continued before she could speak in turn.

"Not for the reasons you probably think. It ain't because you're a 'psycher', or 'xeno', or anything like that. Just... I don't know the person controlling those powers, ya know?" He then slowly approached Celtyra, eventually coming within a couple of yards of her and the window. A respectful amount of space. "I've no idea who you are, what you want, or what you're planning, and it really fucking scares me when the person who can fry my brain just by thinking about it, is also sleeping under my roof."

Marcus sighed at her enduring silence. "Look, I don't give a shit that you're an Eldar, or that you got these insane telepathic powers, okay? I would just like to feel safe in my own home. Do I really need to explain any more than that?"

She hummed at the question, but otherwise did not immediately respond. A moment passed where they stared at the other, Human eyes looking into Eldar helmet slits and vice versa, before she chose to again turn her whole body toward him, giving the former sailor her full scrutiny. Her hands locked together at the small of her back.

"The mistrust differs from the Imperium," she stated rather than asked. "A bold claim. One might say even naive."

He huffed. "Is it? Take away the cultures, the languages, your magic voodoo, and all that jazz, and how different are we really?" Marcus raised both of his hands, palms open and upward facing. "We both have two hands and ten fingers, and two feet with ten toes. Unless you have a third eye under that helmet, which I'm pretty sure you don't, then all I'd see is a very Human-looking face."

The farseer scoffed at the last description but allowed him to go on nonetheless.

"All I'm saying is that we both bleed red, so frankly, there's a lot of other shit that's actually relevant for me to be worried about right now. Convince me that you won't stab me in my sleep, and I can handle the other crazy fuckery."

The dramatic pauses were beginning to become tiring, especially when Celtyra would remain so motionless. Her unreadability made him uncomfortable. Thereupon, it was when he chanced a peek at his wristwatch, taking note of the time being about a quarter to six o'clock, he was thrown off guard by the distinct hissing of air escaping a pressurized environment similar to a newly opened soda. He was shocked to find the Eldar in the process of removing her vacuum-sealed helmet.

What she revealed was a gorgeous creature, appearing no older than himself, that could make the Pope sigh with leisurely ease. The shoulder-length bangs to the side of her pony-tail waved around from their release like exotic tendrils of flames dancing in the wind, the color of her hair an incredibly vibrant shade of fiery red that put Jake's to shame. Staring at Marcus now was not the cold visage of an armored helm, but rather the most vivid emerald green eyes he had ever seen, and would likely ever see for the remainder of his life. Her nose was straight and pert as if molded by perfection. Her luscious lips were neither too large nor too small for a lover's kiss. The skin of her face was a creamy alabaster, as smooth as the finest of unblemished silks tempting his desire to run his fingers upon the surface. Her cheekbones matched with her head's narrow shape, and her chin provided just enough of a point to accent her elvish nature. The elongated and sharpened ends of her ears barely caught any attention from the Human at all.

"You are a fool, Marcus Amalfitano."

It was her voice, natural and unfiltered without the helmet, that snapped him out from his wonder, the initial attractiveness of her features shattered by her cold tone. He had to ignore how captivating it flowed in his ears even then, lest he failed to remember that trees too appeared healthy until the day a storm knocked them over, exposing the rot within. That was a ruse he'd fallen for in the past. Aesthetically pleasing or not, Celtyra and her motives were still a mystery. Insulting him also didn't help.

"For only a fool would look at the face of an Aeldari, believing they are equal to the other," she continued. "And only one such as yourself would be so honest."

Whatever impassioned retort Marcus had was stopped on the tip of his tongue. Whether she was mocking or praising him then was indistinguishable, although her usual grandiosity was still in effect. An answer, however, might have come in the form of a sudden near-imperceptible curve of the lips and softening of the eyes, the action spiting his prior judgment.

Almost as quickly as the minuscule smile occurred, so did the alien woman re-equip the Ghost Helm over her head. He found it slightly heartbreaking.

"By my word, as a Farseer of the Craftworld Ulthwé, and as a devoted representative of my people, no harm shall come to you for as long as I and my fellow Aeldari reside within this dwelling. This, I promise you, so that you may sleep well each coming night, knowing you remain safe inside your own home." When finished, she maneuvered around him and made for the bedroom door, sidestepping a small container of children's toys beside the bed.

The retired corpsman stopped her before she could leave. "This isn't the Imperium, Celtyra." Having risked using her name in a casual manner instead of her formal title, he spoke again when she stayed paused inside the now open doorway. "This is the United States of America, a country full of fools."

She was silent for a few seconds longer, then her entire body vanished from existence in a fraction of a second, taking with it the ache that had been plaguing his head.

—

Marcus did not have impatient ticks. Life in the Navy whipped those out of him as early as RTC Great Lakes, at the time when he served as nothing more than a recruit hoping he didn't get beat too many times with ten-point exercises. Recruit Division Commanders ensured patience was among the first things would-be sailors learned. If it was not patience, tidiness in the compartment, or basic naval academics, then the RDCs guaranteed a stupid division became a _strong_ division.

Checking his wristwatch, which read twenty minutes after seven o'clock, for the third time in the past ten minutes was decidedly not an impatient tick. He'd been seated on the living room couch and waiting for over half of an hour.

The house's doorbell sounded off, at last informing of his guests' arrival. He shot up to his feet and was at the door a short moment later. Before opening it, though, he hastily inspected his clothes, which consisted of a red-white striped long-sleeved button-up shirt and light blue skinny jeans, and patted away any lingering particles that survived the lint roller. He would not introduce himself looking less than squeaky clean, nor give the dreadful individual on the other side a reason to criticize him.

Greeting the judging dark brown eyes that met his once the entrance to his home was open, the retired corpsman had but a single thing to say. "Angela."

"Marcus," was the deadpanned reply.

Angela Tirado. She was a Puerto Rican New York City-born woman of twenty-five, the same age as him minus two months, with caramel skin, eyes accompanied by long flashy lashes, and five full inches cut down in height. The NYC native's figure carried seductive curves that were almost stereotypical of her nationality. He was well acquainted with the physique. After all, the woman owning it was both his high school sweetheart and his ex-wife.

"You're late," he declared, irritation present in his voice.

Her lips twisted in this odd way that simultaneously said, "I don't care," as well as, "Deal with it."

The words that came out of her mouth told differently. "There was traffic on the B-Q-E."

Marcus grunted but didn't verbally admit his skepticism, possibly irrational as it was. The narrowing of her eyes told him she knew what he was thinking anyway.

"Where is she?" he asked in deflection, taking note of the lack of another beside her.

"In the car."

He peered over her shoulder and saw the shape of a small person through her Honda Civic's backseat window, the vehicle parked along the sidewalk in front of his house. "Are you going to bring her in?"

"I wanted to make sure your place wasn't a pigsty first," she confessed nonchalantly.

The former sailor growled under his breath. "You know me better than that, Angela."

"Do I really?" she asked accusingly. "This is my little girl – I need to make sure she'll be in good hands."

"She's my daughter too, dammit." He had to hold back his volume. "We have problems that aren't ever goin' away, but _do not_ involve our kid in our bullshit. She deserves better than that."

Alternatively, Angela had no such qualms with raising her voice, although it remained below a yell. "What she deserves is a father!"

Marcus looked at her as if she'd grown a third eye. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!"

She snorted with a disgusted frown, yet hesitated to answer. "It means that she better not have a single scratch on her head when I pick her up on Sunday. I mean it, Marcus – don't forget you aren't supposed to be seeing her this much. I'm allowing her to spend the weekend with you out of the kindness of my heart. If she gets hurt, I'm taking you back to court."

_You cruel, vindictive bitch._ The retired corpsman knew she'd deliver on that promise if it came down to it, too. All she would need to do was give a little white lie about not giving permission, and the NYC court system would eat it up and spit him back out worse for wear. He'd either be put in a jail cell or have more of his paycheck get taken away for child support. Possibly both. Such was the minefield that a divorced father, like himself, had to tread on in modern America.

A specific quote from a blonde-haired green-eyed fictional character in a recent fantasy TV show came to mind. _"The things we do for love."_

"I swear to God, _our _daughter will be safe. I'd kill for her if I had to."

"That's what scares me," she whispered in contrast. "I know you would."

Marcus didn't know how to respond to that, so he did the next best thing; he took several deep breaths and messaged his closed eyelids. The last two days had already been stressful enough. He didn't have the energy for another extended argument anymore.

"Can you please bring her inside?"

His ex-wife opened her mouth as if to retort. However, she chose to keep it to herself. Now that he thought about it, she looked equally exhausted. "Fine."

A few moments after Angela returned to her car, the tiny frame of a happily smiling five-year-old girl made a mad dash toward the door. In the time it took for her to reach the end of the walkway and wrap her thin arms around him, all the problems clouding his mind melted away like ice under the summer sun, even if he understood that the effect was likely temporary.

"Daddy!"

It was the only voice he ever wanted to hear.


	6. Friends and Foes

**Chapter 6**

**Friends and Foes**

To be smaller than a dining utensil was an undoubtedly degrading and treacherous experience. Without the use of psychic abilities, specifically levitation, moving from point A to point B was a painstaking venture that required numerous improvisations. And beyond the hurdles that came with mounting furniture akin to large hills in relative size and climbing steps that were several times higher than one's own body, there was also the issue of wildlife. It seemed a disturbing variety of insects and rodents infested Human dwellings. Some of the creatures were innocent and benign things that kept to themselves in the darkness, but others were disgusting carnivores intent on dining upon living flesh.

In particular, a tailed and whiskered mammal, as large as the Humans' armored vehicle and matted with age-old dirt and filth in its fur, lurked between the walls and pursued its targets with uncanny intelligence. It had stalked the basement's inhabitants from the moment they had arrived, singling out the dull and careless in its attempts to acquire a fresh meal. One Imperial Guardsman, who had chosen to spend the night resting further away from the others, had nearly fallen prey to the beast. It had managed to discard the Human's weapon, intentionally or not, before dragging the unfortunate soul away by the leg. Had the resulting haze of panicked kicking and screaming not alerted one of the green armored brutes nearby, the critter would have likely succeeded its hunt without losing an eye and an ear.

Nonetheless, considering all of the challenges brought by a miniature state-of-being, unexpected benefits existed as well. Celtyra had taken advantage of her size, with the aid of her psychic prowess, to survey the Human dwelling and observe its owner's social interactions without detection. Covert activities were nigh effortless with an objective so much physically larger.

From behind the leg of a chair in the common-room, the Farseer watched as Marcus Amalfitano closed the structure's front entrance. After a sigh, he turned to the child beside him with a tired but sincere smile. "Just you and me now, kiddo. You ready to spend the weekend with Dad?"

The little girl nodded excitedly. "Yep!"

"Any ideas what we're gonna do? I didn't plan at all."

Her enthusiasm was abruptly interrupted. "But Daddy, you had to plan!"

Marcus chuckled then, bringing his hand down on the Human child's head to rustle hair the same shade of dark brown as his own. "How does going to the Movies sound?"

Although the travesty conducted upon her head annoyed the girl, she quickly forgot about her father's actions in favor of the activity he mentioned. She appeared about ready to hop in the air out of giddiness. "Expen-dibles Two!"

Celtyra didn't know what "the movies" or "Expendables Two" were, but she noticed the adult man's abrupt look of bewilderment.

"Why do you wanna see _that_?" he asked.

"The other movie was cool!"

The surprise was replaced with concern. "Who let you watch the first one?"

"Grandpa," the little girl answered with a look of pure innocence.

"Mommy's dad?"

"Mommy's daddy is Pop-Pop. Your daddy is Grandpa."

"Right..." Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Grandpa and I have some things to talk about. You shouldn't be watching those kinds of movies."

"But Daddy, Grandpa said you saw movies like that too when you were small!"

"When did he say that?!" was the abashed response.

"When we watched Expen-dibles!"

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before lightly biting his bottom lip in aggravation. "Either way, you shouldn't be watching movies like that – those are for adults. You're going to have to pick another movie."

The girl crossed her arms and pouted. "But I wanna see Expen-dibles Two," she whined.

"What about that movie Paranorman?" the father attempted to compromise. "That looks fun."

"I saw it with Mommy."

"Well, then how about Diary of a Wimpy Kid?"

"I saw it with Teetee Stella."

Marcus groaned. "You're killin' me, Smalls."

She pouted even more. "I'm not small!"

"I wasn't calling you-" He suddenly paused as if reaching an epiphany. "We'll watch Sandlot."

"What's Sandlot?" his daughter asked with childish confusion.

Without warning, the parent reached down and playfully picked up the girl in his right arm. "Oof, you're gonna be too big for me to carry soon." Kissing her cheek elicited joyful laughter from the young Human. "You'll find out what 'Sandlot' is when I put it on the T-V."

"You said we're going to the Movies," she complained.

"We will tomorrow," he assured with a kiss to her forehead. "Tonight I'm going to show you a movie your great-grandpa and I used to watch all the time."

The little girl appeared to think it over briefly. "Okay," she accepted with much less spirit.

Marcus chuckled again as he received the child's pack from the floor, the baggage item decorated with the portrait of a Human with a see-through dome helm looking vaguely akin to a Space Marine of the Imperium. "You'll love it," he declared before carrying his daughter and the bag toward the rear of the dwelling. "But first, we gotta put your stuff away."

The Farseer continued to watch the duo until they disappeared into the dining area and down the hallway leading to Marcus' bedchamber. Deciding that all presently necessary had been seen and learned, and it was now safe to maneuver, she abandoned her cover and made the return journey to the dwelling's subterranean level. Her escort of four Howling Banshees revealed themselves from their hidden positions in the kitchen as she passed through, two arising from the shadows of the refrigeration appliance and the others from locations atop the counter. They silently observed as she opened the staircase door with her psychic telekinesis before joining in her descent.

_As if I truly need to be shielded_, she mused with a tick of irritation. The Farseer understood her compatriots were attempting to assure her safety, and she appreciated the sentiment, but a seer as proficient as herself certainly did not require such an entourage. She was more than likely the most powerful individual on the planet even at her current size, and Aspect Warriors were too valuable to be utilized as mere bodyguards, too qualified to be taken away from the unstable white peace with the Imperials.

Forviel was overprotective.

Entering the basement, they were received by a scout of two Guardsmen in their primitive mud-green armor, standing watch atop the left side of the room's center table and staring with disdainful glares. Celtyra and the Howling Banshees paid the Human soldiers no heed, even as one of the impudent whelps spit in her direction. She instead chose to respect the pair of Aeldari Guardians on the opposite side of the table with a cordial nod. Her time and energy better benefited those worthy of regard, not base barbarians.

The state of the chamber hadn't changed in the last two solar cycles. Debris still peppered the ground, chunks of cushion fabric, wood walling, insulating elements, glass, and other miscellaneous materials scattered about haphazardly. The residue of extinguished flames stained some edges of the room, and scorch marks from weapon fire riddled large sections of the walls. With the two opposing factions in the process of evaluating their standings in this world, it was challenging enough not to renew hostilities, let alone perform any semblance of tidiness. Much work was needed to get the chamber back into proper order, and the building's oversized Human keeper had made it abundantly clear that he would not conduct the task alone. Both the Imperials and the Aeldari had promised aid in the cleaning once an opportunity presented itself; it had been a leading demand made by Marcus in earlier parlays.

Celtyra's retinue separated when she reached her people's station at the basement's canteen, the four Aspect Warriors moving to climb the makeshift ropes in the back to rejoin with their comrades on the countertop. She ignored the lines of twine and used her telekinetic ability to float herself up into the island's storage space. The exarchs were already awaiting her arrival.

"Farseer," they greeted with polite saluting bows, speaking in their native tongue.

Forviel was helmetless, but Pashaan was not. The Dire Avenger Exarch did not particularly enjoy exposing himself outside the confines of his armor, and he had only momentarily displayed his face yesterday at Celtyra's request. The Howling Banshee Exarch, to the contrary, seemed to prefer a laxer attitude in private settings.

"I am pleased to see your safe return," Forviel declared honestly. "Was your task a success?"

"Indeed," the Farseer confirmed. "However, I desire to assess recent developments before reviewing my findings."

The Howling Banshee nodded in acceptance, then turned to her Dire Avenger counterpart expectingly.

Pashaan accommodated without delay, his brusque voice almost monotone. It was gruff and low-pitched compared to a typical Aeldari male's. "A Mon-keigh soldier, one of their Guardsmen, has gone missing. They are unaware that we know, and have not requested our aid in the search."

"They would never deign to appeal to us," Forviel slightly sneered. "If they do not want our help, I say we oblige them. The rodent is likely enjoying its meal."

Celtyra silently pondered the new information, contemplating the reference made to the mammal that had been harassing them. "How long ago did this occur?"

"Shortly after you left," Pashaan answered.

Her recent excursion had only lasted about half of an hour in Human time. "Have they discovered any leads?"

"Only that the soldier had vanished during a trip to the Mon-keigh's latrine. Presently, there is a party of four Guardsmen and a single green Space Marine outside and on the trail."

Marcus's warning to avoid leaving the building had stopped neither the Imperials nor the Aeldari from utilizing the basement windows to do just that. They had been careful, of course, and abstained from traveling beyond the structure's exterior boundaries. Some expeditions had been for reconnaissance, others for more pragmatic reasons. The Imperials' outings had primarily been part of the later, their required sanitary arrangements having spurred them to acquire a small piece of land for those specific needs. As vulgar as the Humans were, even they appreciated basic sanitation, and accumulating one's filth in the same room they slept was unacceptable. Not all of them adorned armored ensembles with waste-recycling suites.

The Farseer hummed, too quietly for her companions to overhear. "Have two Banshees shadow the search party. If the Mon-keigh do not find their missing soldier, they at least may acquire the location of the rodent's lair."

Forviel equipped her helmet. "I respectfully request to volunteer for this mission."

"Your request is declined."

The female exarch stiffened, the only form of protest and indication of displeasure at the blunt response she would make. "As you command." She was climbing the rope to the countertop soon after.

Celtyra didn't comment as Forviel left the pseudo-operations room, although she did take notice of Pashaan's silence. "You disagree?" she asked once they were alone.

The Dire Avenger, standing tall and still, gave no outward show of his thoughts. "I question you not, Farseer."

Perhaps she had given the wrong question. "What is your analysis of Exarch Forviel?"

At that, his head leaned a bit to the side, a movement so meager very few would have seen it. "Her skills in combat are adept – worthy of her rank," he stated plainly. "I have witnessed them on numerous occasions and am confident in my judgment."

Sometimes, the mechanical and detached fashion in which Pashaan operated worried Celtyra. It wasn't unexpected for his answer to be to-the-point and no-nonsense, but his behavior often made it seem as if he had no emotional well-being whatsoever. She knew that he wasn't a dispassionate automaton; that he merely suppressed his emotions at an arguably extreme level more so than others. The ideal warrior if there ever was one. Yet, she still found herself occasionally wondering if that was more detrimental than valuable.

The Paths of the Asuryani were founded to teach individuals honing and control over their passions, not the complete dismissal of them. When an Aeldari became lost on a Path, never to experience another, they might sacrifice some control for excellence, in turn becoming more easily susceptible to their emotions. Such was the case for Forviel. However, for a lost Aeldari to become acutely colder and more regimented, as Pashaan had, was an oddity outside the Path of the Seer. People were not machines, and to abandon that which discerned the organic from the artificial was unnatural.

Nevertheless, Celtyra kept the concerns to herself. She'd gotten her answer. "Your input is appreciated."

"It is at your disposal, Farseer."

"I will utilize it extensively in the future." She folded her hands together to intertwine the fingers below her waist. "Have you yet managed to accomplish what I requested?"

"To the best of my ability. Do you wish all to be present before examining the results?"

She shook her head. "You may begin showing me your work now, Exarch. Your colleague will return soon enough."

After acknowledging the Farseer's instruction, Pashaan turned around and walked to the back of the cabinet space. On the floor, laying alongside rolls of twine and miscellaneous craft goods they'd appropriated from Marcus' supply closet, was a rolled sheet of white parchment paper as long as twice as he was tall and constrained by a thin rubber band. He pushed the scroll closer to her before opening it.

Revealed by the rubber removed and the paper unfurled were thorough and finely measured top-down drawings of the building's layout. Room-to-room and wall-to-wall, no significant detail of the interior design or furniture placement was left out, almost like an architectural plan. The basement and main floor were two separate diagrams, and Celtyra could easily distinguish the kitchen, common-room, bedroom, and two bathrooms, as well as the garage she had yet to explore personally. There was even a simple sketch of Marcus' two-wheeled fossil-fuel vehicle where it would ordinarily be parked inside.

The Farseer commended Pashaan's handicraft. "Your best has borne excellent work."

Forviel decided to return from the countertop at that moment. However, she was not alone as she dismounted the climbing rope, a male Guardian Defender armed with a Shuriken Catapult accompanying her. "This one asked for your audience," the Howling Banshee exarch explained.

Celtyra raised an eyebrow beneath her Ghost Helm. The state of the Guardian troops currently under her wing was an unusual arrangement, what with them being from a separate Craftworld altogether. Unlike the Dire Avengers and Howling Banshees, all of whom were from Ulthwé's comparatively small corps of Aspect Warriors, the Guardians that had joined their leap backward in time adorned the green and white color scheme of Biel-tan. Her Black Guardian contingent of Ulthwé's standing army had not managed to make the journey. While it was not unheard of for the forces of differing Craftworlds to cooperate in joint efforts, proven by the very presence of Biel-tan's militia, one taking command over another was unorthodox. They were all Aeldari, their lives indefinitely connected to the Asuryani paths, yet rivalries, polite they may have been, existed all the same.

As the Guardian Defender bowed respectfully in greeting, she noticed his mesh armor was less than pristine, the small but numerous scratches and nicks dotting the ensemble from head-to-toe signifying the veterancy of its user. It was not common for those like him to have their armor in disrepair, even minimal as it was, yet she couldn't claim it to be surprising. Biel-tan was renowned for its militancy.

"Farseer." Though his voice wasn't as deep as Pashaan's, it was lower than some other males'. "I thank you for hosting me."

There had been no place for choice in the matter, but she disregarded that point and nodded in response. "Speak freely, Guardian."

"Then I will get straight to the point," he declared bluntly. "My name is Orrian Zindan, and as the most senior Aeldari of Biel-tan during the absence of higher authority, I have been elected as surrogate-commander. On behalf of my fellow Guardians, I present myself to you as our proxy."

Prior to this new development, the Biel-tan militiamen, lacking the leadership of a Storm Guardian or Aspect Warrior of their own home, had unquestionably looked to Pashaan for guidance. The Dire Avenger Exarch was, after all, the best-suited to be a stand-in for command. However, it was evident they had already grown restless of an "outsider" in charge, wasting no time at all to spring up this abrupt and previously unshared decision. Proper communication would have been prudent.

The Guardians' actions were a display of partial autonomy, and Celtyra was not fond of it. "Why were we not made aware of this decision?" she sternly questioned Orrian.

"I am informing you now," he replied matter-of-factly.

She wasn't amused, and neither was Forviel who interjected with a warning. "Be mindful of who you're speaking to."

The Guardian Defender bowed his head again but otherwise ignored the Howling Banshee Exarch. "Forgive me, Farseer – I meant no disrespect. This position-change had been decided on mere moments ago. As to why you were not told of our intentions beforehand: we had believed it to be of little importance in light of recent events."

Soft and civil words, but Celtyra knew they were just another way of saying it was none of her business. A sigh nearly escaped her. She would have to keep an eye on Orrian and tug in the reigns, lest he and his militiamen make a habit out of similar unnecessary nuisances. "You will not fail to communicate such information again, Guardian."

"As you command."

She scrutinized him with a blank stare for a little longer before motioning to her side. "We are to review the cycle's affairs. Given your new position, your absence would be unsatisfactory."

—

She opened her eyes and inhaled a slow deep breath, wisps of the Warp vacating her body and mind. It receded but did not leave entirely. In this world, the faint sensation of it surrounding her never left, and it felt as foreign as it did liberating. Uncorrupted. Untainted. _Free of She-Who-Thirsts._ If there was better evidence to prove she had indeed traveled backward in time, before the fall of Aeldari civilization and the birth of the Eye of Terror, she did not know of any. Already it tempted, encouraging her to drop the mental barriers she had maintained for so long; to unleash her abilities and succumb to the endless possibilities.

It was _wrong_.

The way the Warp thinly enveloped her was not intentional. It was like a bubble simultaneously separating and connecting her to this strange reality, and it first appeared when she and her people had made their journey. She could not remove herself nor reach out, it bending and flowing along with her physical body. It was always present and seemingly inescapable. The aura plagued the other Aeldari with her as well, and she suspected the Imperium forces were no better.

Celtyra's gaze lowered to the red-hot rune floating in front of her seated and cross-legged form, her face twisted into a grimace. No longer could she efficiently examine the strands of time without risking the destruction of the wraithbone construct. And if she were to try, the pathways of the future would only serve as jumbled images. The vague shape of a structure. A blurred picture of a landscape. Vivid colors were either muted or nonexistent. Her arguably most valuable power had been stripped down to near uselessness, and the Warp bubble was the only plausible cause she could find.

Her unsuccessful trance finished, the Farseer raised to her feet and retrieved the rune. She was alone inside the cabinet space, her subordinates having departed after their earlier conference. With little else to do, the time late and the day's assessment complete, she levitated herself to the countertop.

Forviel was already stationed there, approaching once she noticed her superior's arrival. "The Mon-keigh have found their missing number."

Landing on her feet, Celtyra did not miss her underling's subtle smugness. "And the creature's lair?"

"Still unknown. The soldier hung itself on the branch of a bush."

That was a mild surprise. "Suicide?"

The Howling Banshee Exarch shrugged. "Its will must have been too weak."

"I see..." The Farseer wearily exhaled. "A pity we could not locate the nest. Finding it will be tomorrow's priority."

"Should we destroy it?"

Celtyra immediately understood the unspoken suggestion. "Inform me as soon as you find it."

"Of course," the Exarch nodded. She then paused before changing the subject. "Will you be going to the upper level again tonight?

"Briefly."

"My Banshees will accompany you."

"That will be unnecessary."

Forviel moderately tightened her fists. "I respectfully insist, Farseer."

"You're insistence is respectfully ignored."

"But-!"

"I am more than capable of defending myself," the Farseer declared with finality, voice rising just high enough to garner the attention of a couple of nearby Guardians. A glance in their direction fixed that.

The Howling Banshee stared hard at her superior. "As you wish."

Celtyra responded in kind, but she eventually relaxed and gently placed her hand on Forviel's shoulder. "Do you have so little faith in me?"

The question appeared to expel all tension from the Exarch. Shoulders drooped, her reply was almost a whisper. "I hold all of my faith in you."

—

Marcus Amalfitano was stubborn and naive like the rest of his species, quick to uninformed opinions and conclusions. But, he was also a peculiarly tolerant and principled man. He didn't treat Aeldari as _things_ to be feared or exterminated, and outside of a few exceptions so far, his daily life contained an adequate balance of regimentation and solidarity. From what she had gathered, the man was a retired military veteran turned medical practitioner, his occupation having the role of responding to medical emergencies within his community.

He wasn't a shining example of noble virtue by any stretch of the means, though. The previous night proved Marcus could surrender to vanity, and there were glaring issues in his personal life, particularly when involving his family. There was also his habit of ingesting pilled drugs on the regular, which Celtyra had presumed were for his occasional bouts of head pain. Then there was his unfiltered tongue and the disturbingly large amount of entertainment technology he owned – was hedonism typical among Humans?

Marcus was sitting on the rectangular cushioned furniture piece in the common-room as the Farseer mulled over her thoughts, young daughter covered by a blanket and leaning into his side. The "movie" they had been watching on the flat-screened entertainment device had finished some time prior, and now a wall of words was moving bottom-to-top over a black background. Though the child was already asleep, the father still slowly and carefully petted the top of her head.

"Hey," the man called quietly. "You asleep?"

When the only response that came was a minor shifting of the little girl's head below his arm, he chuckled softly. His lips curved into a relaxed and lighthearted smile that none could deny was wholly authentic.

"Alright, kiddo, let's get you to bed."

Celtyra would never claim to be an expert on Human behavior, considering the majority of her encounters with them in the past had resulted in bloodshed. That said, the care in which Marcus extracted himself from his daughter's grip and picked her up in his arms reminded the Farseer immensely of the fashion Aeldari parents handled their children. He carried the girl as if holding the most valuable yet fragile treasure in the galaxy, each step toward the bedroom conducted in a way that would not wake her. What Celtyra saw was a father's unconditional love for his child.

He returned to the common-room soon after, his daughter put to bed. A white pillow, white sheet, and the same blanket from before were in his hands along with two blocky handheld electronic devices. After some re-arrangements of the cushioned furniture piece and attaching the sheet, he plugged a wire belonging to one of the electronics into a socket on the closest wall. It was then he finally laid down, one device in his hand and the other on the small wooden table to the side of the furniture piece.

She would have left for the basement at that moment had music not begun quietly playing from the second electronic device.

_~Yeah...~  
__~I know sometimes, things may not always make sense to you right now,~  
__~But hey, what'd Daddy always tell you?~  
__~Straighten up little soldier,~  
__~Stiffen up that upper lip.~  
__~What you cryin' about?~  
__~You got me.~_

Odd and archaic with its rhymes, it wasn't nearly as elegant as Aeldari songs. However, the longer it went on, the more the Farseer understood that Marcus wasn't listening to it for its quality. He was listening to it because, in one way or another, he related to its story. At least, that was the most logical conclusion she could surmise.

She needed to learn more. Not just about Marcus, but the world that created him too. There were numerous questions in need of answers, and a lesser person wouldn't have known where to start. Fortunately, Celtyra was not such a person. She knew the answers to her questions began with this Human; that he was the first key.

Why else would his face be the only image that ever appeared so clearly?

* * *

_Song: Eminem - 'Mockingbird'_

_Fun__ Fact:_ "_TeeTee" is supposed to be "t__ití", meaning "aunt" in the modern Puerto Rican dialect of Spanish._


End file.
